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Permaculture Principles in Missions

In coming to Swaziland, southern Africa, my husband Sean and I imagined permaculture might play a role in our garden or mission work. However, it wasn’t until we found ourselves at a Permaculture Design Course in South Africa that we realized how interwoven the principles and practices of permaculture were becoming in our practices, garden, and missional intent. As a way to establish a permanent culture of living, permaculture principles encourage communities to be imaginatively resourceful and resilient. These applied principles shape our production of food, the design of residential areas, as well as our community work.

In reflection, we saw how permaculture principles echo Christian ethics. We have nuanced our Christian missionary perspectives in light of permaculture principles and practices. It is through the collective, collaborative lens of permaculture and Christian ethics that we view our work. It is from this place that we move out, going about our business of bringing a little more of Christ into our corner of the world.

Observe and Interact

“Observation of nature gives us firsthand experience, as opposed to books, teachers, Internet, which are 2nd and 3rd hand sources. We need to observe, recognize patterns and appreciate details that may often be small, slow, subtle, cyclical or episodic.” 1

When first looking at a piece of land, dreaming of what redemption can come to the soil and people, what plants will grow to feed us, what trees will thrive to shade us, and what animals will prosper to help us in our work, the first place we start is water.

We look at where our closest water source lies and how the water moves across the landscape. We examine where the water pools and where it runs quickly. We observe how the water rushes across the ground during a hard rain. After water, we watch how the sun moves throughout a day, throughout the change of seasons. We watch long enough to see which animals and birds venture across this space, even interacting with them, following them to their holes or nests, learning where they come from, what they do, and where they go. We see neighbors and how they use our common fence line, their patterns of living and moving. Hopefully, in the intentional watching, we learn what not to touch or change and what energy we can use and how. From these observations, we begin to build a plan, a design for the space that incorporates our findings.

This permaculture principle, like all of them, is cyclical. You begin by listening and observing. You determine a necessary action and start moving toward that action. Then you realize your actions are not received well, so you stop and listen some more. When you think you’ve observed and dabbled in interactions enough, you start movement again.

Author, activist, and educator Bill McKibben addresses how “big” we humans have become, especially concerning science, the world’s working, and specifically the climate. In an interview with Krista Tippet on Speaking of Faith, he recalls the last three chapters of Job, when God responds to Job’s incessant begging for answers and reasons why he has suffered.2

Just when Job is feeling big, like maybe he has some answers, as if he could teach the Creator a thing or two, God responds. “Where does the light come from, and where does the darkness go?” (38:19).3 “Have you given the horse its strength or clothed its neck with a flowing mane?” (39:19). The mere questions from God shrink Job back to being small again. He seems content to acknowledge, “I was talking about things I knew nothing about” (42:3). Job seems content to become small and let the shrinking happen, recognizing God is God and Job is not.

In our current world, it is easy to assume we have the answers. As McKibben points out, reading God’s questions for Job through today’s lens, we could respond, “Hell yes!”4 Hell yes I know the morning light comes from the earths’ rotation and orbit around the sun. Hell yes, we can breed a horse for its strength or (heaven help us) genetically modify its DNA so it has a silkier mane. In all that we Westerners do we can easily find the answer of how and why. The mystery is erased.

McKibben continues, “We have become very big. Our job is to get small again.”5 Creation has begun to reap the harvest of humanity becoming too big. Problems of soil loss and degradation in large-scale agriculture; giant corporations who cannot loan to the poor on company policy; and the waste that nation after nation has no place for. It’s time to become small again.

Richard Rohr calls this idea “the beginner’s mind.” In Everything Belongs, this Franciscan priest and author points out that we must not journey through life assuming we know, assuming we see, but we “must always be ready to see anew.”6

In Luke 18, we encounter an image of Christ welcoming the little children to him. He admonishes his listeners that “anyone who does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it” (v. 17). The beginner’s mind. Getting small again. Shrinking the ego, the brain-with-all-the-answers, stepping out of the center, and allowing God to orient us. Allowing us to learn together, re-center ourselves in humility, and begin through questions.

Quieting our have-all-the-answers minds in order to allow the child-like mind to step forward, Sean and I entered into our new lives in Swaziland. Learning from the mistakes of former mission workers who graciously shared with us, we sought not to have answers but questions, not only to talk about valuing local talent but also to have community leaders guide us. We intentionally moved slowly for the first six months, focusing on listening and learning over teaching and telling. Learning siSwati. Learning how to get around. Listening to the people around us, talking to other missionaries, getting to know whatever Swazi we came across, and speaking to NGO workers. We asked questions instead of giving answers.

Our six months of intentional listening spilled into nine months, then a year. In that time we slowly began more “work.” Out of such listening came eventual pursuits in response to our community. Sean started a garden with Make (Mrs.) Lulane on a common piece of land; I taught expecting moms at the hospital. Sean researched and introduced fuel-efficient stoves to some Swazi friends; I helped my first doula client. Slowly, the word spread as it does in a small town where everyone walks and has plenty of time in that walk to chat. Invitations happened.

“The people of Masini are asking if you will come and show them this stove.”

“Can you help my friend who is also pregnant?”

And with the invitations, we walked deeper into the neighborhood. Sean kept returning to Masini, a town just 2.5 miles from our little rented place. A proper Swazi community, everyone hauled their bathing, cooking, and drinking water from the Mkhondvo River. During the rainy season, most people planted maize on their homesteads. A few adventurous folks planted moringa trees, okra, cabbage, and Swiss Chard.

It was to this community that Make Lulane begged us to move. Not so she could gain anything from us. Not so we might build her a house, or bring electricity or television. No, she insisted, “You want to live in a community, so I will give you land. Come to my home. Be my neighbor. My husband and I are happy with this. We will take nothing from you. I just want you to have a home where you can start your work.”

She begged us so desperately once that I told Sean, “We have to seriously consider moving onto her land. If we keep refusing, she may become offended.” Make Lulane’s invitations highlight a crucial piece of our application of the “observe and interact” principle. We had hoped that by watching folks, listening, and interacting with them, that they might invite us to live with them. “Why don’t you move here?” traverses culture and language much better than “We decided to purchase a prime piece of real estate in a community where no one wanted us, or a place that did not fit our needs because we jumped in too quickly.”

As life would have it, the family we sub-leased our servant’s quarters-house from was moving soon. Forced to find a new home, Sean headed into Masini. A friend took him to a nice rondavel (round house with thatched roof) with a fenced property and flat, agricultural land. Two weeks later we moved into a community where we were invited—into a community that oriented herself along the river.

Such invitation and welcome seems to be fruit from our slow movement, listening ears, asking mouths. Our attempts to speak siSwati impress our neighbors, telling them, “I care enough about you to learn to speak your language.” And we are not only interested in the language of their tongues but of their lives, their gardens, their birthing experiences, and their education. We hope our interest will eventually turn into a way for us to come together, learning to speak a larger, louder language of grace and love that causes the whole of the nation to turns its head towards Masini, to observe and interact with the way we are living here, next to our river, amongst each other, and on our homesteads.

Use Edges and Value the Marginal

“The interface between things is where the most interesting events take place. These are often the most valuable, diverse and productive elements in the system.”

Edges attract a lot of activity, being a crossroads and meeting place for creatures and people alike. For example, the edge where a forest and meadow meet has more activity than deep in the forest or in the wide-open meadow. At our place, the fence edge gets a lot of action. Neighbors’ cows chow anything sticking through to their side of the fence; the goats shove their heads through gaps and demolish anything on the borders. Children run to the fence and greet us as we work in the garden. Our dog respects the edge, not venturing beyond it. Birds sit here, chirping and tweeting, cleaning themselves and scoping the next seed-extraction site. We’ve spent as many hours patching, building, and adding to the fence as cultivating the space it protects. Action happens at the fence. There’s activity on the edge.

So too with Christ. He spent his ministry not only on the streets, but also in the synagogue. His healings happened on the road; people gathered in open places to hear him teach. He, himself, was an edge. He drew together people from the margins and people from the “in” crowds of society. His kingdom was and is for the rich and poor, the educated and uneducated, the sinners and the “righteous”—for all. His way of living wasn’t like “us” or like “them;” he created a new way, a third way.

Turn the other cheek. Give them your cloak. It’s not just a literal admonishment for non-violence or charity, but an invitation to live in a third way. In Jesus’ way, when we’re smacked, we don’t hit back, and we don’t walk away. We look our assailant in the eye and boldly offer our other cheek and allow the weight of our presence to be felt and acknowledged. In such reactions lie a tinge of subversion and humble rejection of societal norms. Through such subversion of our systems people begin to question: What is this other way? Our echoing of Jesus’ third way raises eyebrows and the people lean in. Watching. Waiting. Listening. Eager for what we’ll show them.

Early in our lives here I made a debilitating mistake. Swaziland has a population of 1.2 million, 5% being white. Over 800 Americans alone live here, running NGOs, facilitating missions, and working at the embassy. South African families of European descent have also moved into Swaziland, enticed by her peaceful nature and cheap labor, so a minority population of white folks live here. Early on, I decided to be different than the other expatriates, missionaries, and “white” folks around me. I worked tirelessly to make sure I was kinder than them, didn’t hire a gardener to do the gardening for me, and even proved my difference by advancing in siSwati. In short, I feared being too much like the culture I came from. I feared drawing too deeply from my twisted roots of ethnocentricity, materialism, and superiority. I didn’t want to be the NGO that came into a community, installed a community garden, and walked away before anyone could tell us, “We don’t have water for these crops.” Yet, in my attempts to be “less than” the Swazis I met, I sought to be “better than” the expat community. My twisted attempt at humility and listening and learning puffed up my own pride. My head swelled, and my heart shrunk.

This tension tore me between being friends with a South African couple and their maids. I would visit my Swazi friend, Ncamsile, at her homestead, which looked much like where I lived. We’d chat, have tea, and look at her field of maize. The next day I’d visit my friend Jean’s house, which looks much like the middle-class home I grew up in. At Jean’s house, Ncamsile sheepishly greeted me in siSwati, hanging her head low as she washed dishes in the sink, then brought a tray of tea to her boss and me on the porch. And the lovely boss lady and I would have a wonderful chat, gazing out over her flower garden, discussing life. But the tension between these two worlds threatened to tear me apart.

Immaturely, wrongly, I degraded my Expat friends to my Swazi friends. My twisted thoughts told me, “By belittling the one, I will esteem the other.” Such action only reflect badly on the belittler—me.

In short, I kept my physical and emotional distance in friendships with these affluent folks. The questions I asked prevented me from ever drawing near to these neighbors.

How could I be friends with anyone who lives in this golf estate? Clearly, we have nothing in common. They have running water; I have a tank outside. They have four bedrooms; I have a one-room rondavel. Their budget is ten times mine. They report to work at an eight-to-four job at an orphanage; I create my own work, gardening, doula-ing, and showing up at church events. This chasm grew between me and the people who spoke my language fluently, knew where my hometown was, and who sought relationship with me. By pushing away from this growing expat community, I shoved myself into isolation, where loneliness crept in.

I was a person on the edge, living in a space between two worlds, and I threw myself off the fence. Instead of embracing my unique position of friendships with people from two worlds that often misunderstood each other, I rejected it. Instead of inviting such friends together to share a meal, I segregated my life. White friends and Swazi friends. There were two boxes. Two labels. And I aimed to keep them separate because I felt guilt.

There’s still quite a tension. Push it too far, and I’ll be using the gospel to advance my pocketbook, pride, and capitalism. Don’t push it enough, and I’ll start thinking I’m better because I live in a one-room house. It is only through Christ’s illuminating presence in my life that the delicate balance can be struck. There’s an edge to live on. I can live at the space between two worlds. I can take bucket baths in my house, Swazi-style, or steal hot showers from the clubhouse . I can speak siSwati, tell jokes, and laugh with an old gogo grandma. I can speak my mother tongue, ask how someone’s doing, and be a listening friend. It is in this kind of living that I begin to see more of Christ. I am a creator of love, goodness, light, joy, and peace amongst my human neighbors. Whether we are rich or poor, we all need gentle correction when we’ve done wrong. We need challenges to grow from. We need people to live on the edge with. We all need acceptance from the people around us, and invitation to live more deeply, more fully as echoes of Christ’s third way. We need reminders that there is an edge, a place teeming with life, full of love and friendships.

And I’m stirring the pot with my very presence. I am asking people to re-examine these walls erected between “us” and “them.” By standing at the fence, talking to everyone—Swazis, whites—my presence values the marginal.

Use Small, Slow [Creative] Solutions

“Small and slow solutions are easier to maintain than big ones, making better use of local resources and produce more sustainable outcomes.”

Conventional farming tells us to feed our crops using chemical fertilizer. Even for a quarter-acre homestead garden, I could drive to the supply store, purchase several pounds of fertilizer, don a HAZMAT suit and spray my crops. My crops would grow with the chemical “nutrients” I had sprayed on them. It’s a quick, more costly, instant-gratification response to a need.

Permaculture farming tells us the answer is much slower, much smaller. In order to feed our crops, we must first feed our soil. Months before we plant, we compost. We create soil out of manure, grass cuttings, and kitchen scraps. We employ worms to “farm” compost for us. And 18 days after I’ve turned my hot compost 5 times and watered it bi-weekly, it’s finally ready to feed my plants. This solution takes about 30 times the input of time, yet almost none of the cost. Additionally, it’s a lasting solution, unlike conventional farming’s chemical answer. Sure, I’ll keep adding compost to my soil, mending it, reconciling the microbial life; however, at some point, the soil will reach its potential as a self-regenerative system.

This specific permaculture principle is: “Use small, slow solutions.” However, I would expand it to, “Use small, slow, creative responses to everything.”

Jesus incarnated as a small, slow, creative response to man’s sinful bent. He could have come as a King, decreeing we love one another, demanding we turn the other cheek and journey two miles when asked forced to accompany a Roman soldier for one. He was not a God-man of projects and big programs, but one of spending time and being with people. Not only he did stand to teach the thousands, but the Gospels show he poured more time and energy into healing people—one broken, lonely, misshapen person at a time. In a crowd, he focused on one. His very essence and manner was of humble, small actions.

Sean and I could get pulled in a lot of directions. Put the word out that you work for free and might know something about moving water without electricity, and people will think of work for you to do.

“Move here. Start a farm to give our community jobs.”

“Let’s start an agricultural training school. You can facilitate and teach hundreds of people a year about farming your way.”

While these requests floored us, we only desired to work intimately with less than 5 families in our community. Yes, the lure of transforming a whole nation of 1.2 million appeals. Yes, having a large orphanage or farm or school or project attracts donors who pour in their “‘atta girls” and piles of cash. Such “big” projects are easy to hang our hats on, or point to and say, “Look what we’ve done.” Yet, Sean and I cannot sustain the large and complicated. (Who can?!) We see a God who moves differently, smaller even. He moves through relationship and being with people, just as much at teaching and healing people. Instead of “getting bigger”, Sean and I move out from ourselves, first getting our garden to actually grow a healthy crop. Then we may have a teeny bit of advice to offer when someone wonders why his or her hectare of sugar beans didn’t germinate. We commit ourselves to staying small, so that we might move slow, and be creative advocates for the growth of our home turf.

In addition to staying grounded and centralized in our location and work, we seek creative responses to everything. In Swaziland, being white tells people we probably have disposable income, so we get a lot of requests for financial help. In our response, we aim to creatively exchange resources with people. Often we circumnavigate the exchange of the emalangeni (Swaziland’s currency), instead choosing to trade man-hours, edible resources, or services when it is applicable.

Outside the closest grocery store, a mother and her two daughters sell fruits. The mother travels 30 minutes to town on a public bus, to purchase apples, bananas, and oranges imported from South Africa. She loads her boxes of fruit back onto a bus and then sets up her “shop” on the curb of the grocery store’s parking lot.

Over a year ago, when we moved into the neighborhood, I met these three. The ten-year-old schoolgirl, the pregnant teenager, and their siSwati-speaking mother. Over my initial purchases of fruit, I managed to fumble through, “Please speak slowly, I’m learning siSwati.”

The daughters’ eyes lit up. “Oh, you’re learning siSwati,” they said in English.

I laughed and said, “Well I’m trying. But only if you speak it with me, please.” And so began the delight of a friendship where they sell fruit and I buy it. A relationship where they teach me, and I learn.

It didn’t come for more than a year. Or maybe my siSwati wasn’t good enough to hear it for a year. But then it came last month. A request. A plea. An asking. Annunciating slowly for me, the Fruit-Selling-Mama said, “Your friend [the youngest daughter has been referred to as “my friend” since I met her], needs a uniform for school. Can you please help me buy a uniform?”

My heart sunk. Crap! Panic set in. Now what do I say? We’re not in the business of giving anything out for free, but school’s important. This is delicate, and I must respect her in my reply. Research DOES show that a young girl is more likely to complete school if she just has a uniform and a few pencils. And I don’t want her to drop out like her older sister because she got pregnant. Frozen to the concrete, stunned, I wished Sean were there to help me. I stuttered a feeble reply that I would think about it and speak to my husband, which I did.

Sean hatched a plan I liked. I scribbled down what I wanted to say to this mom. Then Nomduduso, our tutor, helped me translate it. Ten whole days later, I headed to the grocery store, armed with my grocery list, resolve, and my translated response to Fruit-Selling-Mama.

I approached with a full page of siSwati phrases. After greeting her, I launched into my reply. We walked through how much profit she gets from a given box of fruits. We talked about how I don’t like to give anything to anyone because it makes me feel like a bank (she laughed), and it complicates our relationship. Instead, I prefer supporting people in the work they are already doing, “like buying fruit from you instead of in the store.”

I told her, “I’m wanting to make jam or apple sauce, so I’m hoping you can help me with my problem. Could you get me one or two boxes of peaches or apples?”

At first she just peered at me from under her hat’s brim. What? Her eyes asked. Her question rested between those squinting eyes, the scrunched eyebrows. How does this connect to the uniform problem?

I continued, “And I was thinking, maybe with the extra profit you’re going to get, you can buy a uniform.” And she exploded. Into clapping hands, laughing smile, dancing feet, and swelling pride. Yes, yes. This was a good idea. She could do it. She would be happy to earn the money for the uniform.

And so I got some apples, which I turned into scrumptious applesauce. And Mama got a paycheck, then a uniform. And we both kept our dignity and took one small step toward more relationship. A step toward a solution we can all live with. It’s a solution we can sustain because I eat a lot of applesauce.

Our lives in Swaziland are like our budding garden. For months we hacked down weeds, mended the fence, composted grass, hauled manure, babied seedlings, and mulched beds. For handfuls of months we’ve listened, studied language, wrestled with life on the edge, failed at life lived among the marginal, and sought creative, small responses to both our needs and those of our community members. As I sit here, amongst the garden on a coveted plastic chair, the yellow finches tweet along the fence line, swooping into our chicken coop to scoop some seed. The chickens cluck quietly, fluffing and dusting their feathers in the improving soil. A towering oxheart tomato shades my skirted legs. Our landlord passes wearing his wife’s wide-brimmed, pink hat that shades his eyes. A voice from underneath the brim shouts,“I can see the lemon grass is growing. Soon you will make tea.” I nod and smile, bobbing the wide-brimmed straw hat that rests on my own head. “Yebo.” “Yes, I hope so. And then we will drink some together.”

A fancy silver car dashes up the road, passes our drive, backs up quickly, then blasts down the driveway. Our Afrikaner friends come to pick up their puppy that we dog-sat for the long weekend. After packing up the dog bed and food, they give me a big “Thank you so much.”

And I respond, “As the Swazis say, ‘Wemukelikile.’ You are welcome here anytime.”

Nicole’s first endeavors into cross-cultural living started with inner city Newark, New Jersey, where she taught high school students English. Since 2012, Nicole has lived in Swaziland with her husband Sean and their faithful Jack Russell, Thor. Their blog exposes more of their journey at http://boehrig.wordpress.com.

1 The principles quoted in this article are from Permaculture South Africa, “Permaculture Design Course Handbook” (handbook created by course instructors), http://permacultureSouthAfrica.com.

2 Bill McKibben, “The Moral Math of Climate Change,” On Being with Krita Tippett, podcast audio, August 5, 2010, http://onbeing.org/program/moral-math-climate-change/209.

3 Scripture quotations are from the New Living Translation.

4 McKibben.

5 McKibben.

6 Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer, rev. ed. (New York: Crossroad Publishing Company, 2003), 33.

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The Instructions of Jesus Regarding Missionary Lifestyle

Missionary lifestyle has long been subject to vigorous discussion. What do the Scriptures say regarding the topic? Do the words of Jesus when sending His disciples apply today? Do the epistles add any clarity to the question? Do the instructions of Christ apply to missionaries only or equally to all of his followers? The Scriptures are consistent when they are allowed to speak for themselves.

What is the appropriate lifestyle for a missionary? If given a choice, most missionaries might opt for a mansion instead of a mud hut. Should they? Lifestyle decisions are very personal (or so the Western world assumes). Do missionaries have the right to decide how they should live? Those preparing for missionary service are encouraged to follow the instructions of Christ. Missionary trainers often say the pursuit of personal rights culminates in the acceptance of Jesus as Lord. Once that right has been exercised, only responsibilities remain. Is this a proper reading of Scripture? Must we abandon our right to lifestyle choices as a messenger of the cross?

Exhortations of Scripture

When one studies the requirements for discipleship, it is quickly observed that two areas of concern are mentioned: people and possessions.

1. People. Jesus asked his followers to put him first—above other people, especially family members (Luke 14:26). In point of fact, his first followers left parents and fellow workers (Mark 1:20)—though they were promised a new and larger circle of relatives (Mark 10:29–30).

2. Possessions. Distrust of wealth was a central teaching of Jesus (Mark 4:19), for the wealthy will find it difficult to enter the kingdom of God (Mark 10:23). Hence, the Master encouraged renouncing all possessions, selling them, and giving the proceeds to the poor (Luke 12:33–34). When called into discipleship, the followers of Jesus left their jobs (Mark 1:16–20). When sent into the mission field, the disciples were instructed to leave behind their possessions (Mark 6:8–9). The recipients of their message would provide their needs (Matt. 10:10). Those who left their possessions were promised an abundant reward (Mark 10:29).

Analysis of Commitment

What did Jesus mean? Do his exhortations apply today? For whom did he intend these extraordinary demands? The texts under consideration were addressed to the “disciples.” The term disciple referred narrowly to “the twelve” (John 2:2) and broadly to “those who believe” (Matt 10:42). In this section of the article, comments will be restricted to the narrower sense—those Jesus sent out as missionaries.

1. Specific demands. When the Lord called the disciples to become “fishers of men,” they left both employment and family (Luke 5:11). It was a practical consequence of changing vocations. Those who answer the call to mission should, out of the necessity of the assignment, sever their ties with employment and relatives in order to go overseas.

2. General requirements. While the specific demands mention the disciples by name, the general requirements refer to unknown persons. Three requirements are stated. First, whoever plans to follow Jesus should weigh the cost of insecurity, which likely grew out of the specific demands above (Matt 8:18–20). Second, whoever follows Jesus should put his mission above all other human plans (Luke 9:59–60). And, third, whoever wants to follow Jesus must make an absolute commitment without regrets or afterthoughts (Luke 9:61–62). These general requirements have a single purpose: In order to be with Jesus, to be his missionary, one must be ready for everything and prefer him over all things. These requirements do not ask for concrete renunciation but refer to an unconditional commitment to the Lord—a commitment that takes priority over all other values.

Preparations for Mission

The preparation of the twelve and the sending of the seventy-two are concerned with the opposition that the messengers would encounter: hate, persecution, and death (Matt 10:17–24). Thus, the Lord issues special instructions to his missionaries.

1. Strategic arrangements. Christ sends his messengers in pairs (Mark 6:7; Luke 10:1). They are to greet no one along the road (Luke 10:4). They are forbidden to move from house to house (Luke 10:7). These missionaries are also given particularly strict instructions concerning what they could take on their journey (though the stipulations varied).

Provisions for Mission Matt
10:9–10
Mark
6:8–9
Luke
9:2–3
Bread No
Bag No No No
Money No No
Staff No Yes
Extra tunic No No
Sandals No Yes No

The Gospel of Mark began the list of instructions with the words, “take nothing for the journey” (Mark 6:8) but allows a staff and sandals (Mark 6:8–9), both of which are prohibited by Matthew. What does all of this mean? It seems that the intent is not ascetic poverty (or scorn of wealth) but functional poverty (or necessity of the task). In others words, mission requires haste. Therefore, missionaries are to travel light, to be unencumbered. God (and the good will of the hearers) would provide (Matt 10:10; Luke 10:7; 22:35). It is apparent, however, once the conditions change—namely, when they encountered hostile situations—Jesus recommends different behavior (Luke 22:36).

2. Spiritual preparations. Though Jesus sent out the disciples as peaceful envoys, they would eventually confront opposition (Mark 13:9, 12). Initially, the religious leaders would attack the missionaries (Luke 21:12). Later, the messengers of the Lord would be “hated by all” (Mark 13:13), which included their very own families (Matt 10:21; Luke 21:16). These hate and persecution sayings are placed in the context of sending out the twelve as well as the suffering at the end of the age. Matthew places them in both contexts (Matt. 10:17–18; 24:9), while Mark and Luke restrict them to the eschatological discourse alone (Mark 13:9-13; Luke 21:12–17). Opposition was obviously a common experience for the first missionaries. It is, likewise, a similar experience for their contemporary counterparts (Matt 10:25).

All of the passages that address missionary preparation revolve around the idea of being “with Jesus” (Mark 3:14; 5:18). Since he was central, all other realities (family, occupation, security, and self-affirmation) were thrust to the periphery. The missionary texts concentrate on the decision (rather than the behavior) of commitment. “Denial of oneself” is the bedrock of missionary service (Matt 16:24–28). Such submission requires “forsaking all.” The urgency of mission demands “taking nothing for the journey.” Nevertheless, behind all of these stipulations is the example of the Lord, the model of self-renunciation (2 Cor 8:9).

Characteristics of Ministry

The history of the early church echoes the requirements which were clearly articulated during the ministry of the Lord. How did the early church respond to his demands? Did they alter any of them and, if so, in what way?

1. Acts. Because Acts was authored by Luke, we are afforded an opportunity to see how he views the extraordinary demands of Jesus operational in the life and growth of the young community of faith. First, the attitude of the early church toward money is quite clear. The Lord insists on his followers divesting themselves of their possessions in order to share with others, especially with the poor (Luke 12:33; 14:33). Describing the life of the first community of believers in Jerusalem, Luke shows in a concrete way how such sharing is done. Those who have possessions sell them and place the proceeds at the apostles’ feet to be shared or distributed according to the needs of each one (Acts 2:43–45; 4:32–45; 5:2). In the Gospel of Luke, the sharing is with the poor in general, while in Acts the sharing is with believers in particular. Divestiture does not lead to poverty but community. The same theme plays out in other texts (Acts 11:29; 20:33-35). Though Luke makes no allusion to the sayings of Jesus in Acts, it is clear that the renunciation was not asceticism—a repudiation of wealth—but the creation of a community of believers through the sharing of wealth.

Second, the attitude of the early church toward suffering is also clear. For example, Stephen prays for those who are in the process of stoning him to death (Acts 7:60). So, too, Paul endures hardship for Jesus’ sake (Acts 9:16; 20:23). Paul and Barnabas put their lives on the line for the Lord (Acts 15:26). They attach no value to their existence (Acts 20:24); therefore, they are ready to die for Christ (Acts 21:13). They are glad to suffer humiliation for “the sake of the name” (Acts 5:40, 41). Such was and is the calling of a missionary.

2. Epistles. The letters describe the messianic significance of Jesus and his effect on the behavior of the first century saints. It is no surprise, then, that the historical elements of his life and ministry are almost totally absent in the epistles. Still, the letters announce several radical demands which closely resemble the requirements of discipleship enunciated by Jesus. The following are pertinent. First, Christians need an enduring faith. The early church suffered various trials: hunger, thirst, abuse, insult, imprisonment, beatings, and poverty (1 Cor 4:11; 2 Cor 6:4–5, 10). Such was the fate of every believer (2 Tim 3:11–12). Yet, those who suffered were abundantly blessed (2 Thess 1:5; 1 Pet 2:19–20; 4:13–14). The epistles obviously reflect Jesus’ emphasis.

Second, a community of possessions is necessary. Paul insists on churches helping poor saints (Rom. 15:26; Gal 2:10). Therefore, he organizes a collection for the believers in Jerusalem (1 Cor 16:1–4). He calls it a koinōnia, that is, a sharing (2 Cor 8:4). The sharing of material possessions is a proof of Christian-ness (1 John 3:17; 4:20), a demonstration of the correct understanding of a believer’s relationship to money (1 Tim 6:17-19; Heb 13:16). Quite clearly the disciple of Jesus must be free from dependency on material things (1 Cor 7:31; Phil 4:6). All of this echoes the sobering challenge of Jesus (Matt 6:25–34).

Third, discipleship demands a deep love. The compassion of believers is distinctive in a world of secular values. They are called upon to bless those who persecuted them Rom 12:14; 1 Cor 4:12), to return good to those who hurt them (Rom 12:20), to avoid anger (Col 3:8), and to show courtesy to everyone (Titus 3:2). If those are not outrageous enough, believers are also to refrain from revenge (Rom 12:17; 1 Thess 5:15; 1 Pet 3:8–9). Even though there was injustice, believers are not to demand their rights (from fellow saints) (1 Cor 6:7). Rather, the followers of the humble Galilean must bear with others (Col 3:13), carry their burdens, (Gal 6:2), and refrain from judging them (Rom 14:4, 10). If correction is needed, it must be carefully administered (2 Thess 3:15; Eph 4:32). All of this requires a new attitude (Col 3:12). The teachings of the post-resurrection epistles are strikingly similar to the pre-resurrection sayings of Jesus. Faith in Christ calls for a radical reorientation of a believer’s relationship with both God and man.

Significance for Today

What does all of this mean for us today? How should a missionary understand these radical sayings?

1. Particular instructions. All of the requirements for missionary service can be clustered around four instructions. In other words, Christ called for drastic actions that measured faithfulness.

First, the missionary must follow Jesus. In order to be his messenger, one must deny oneself, take up the cross, and follow him. This will lead to opposition, persecution, and even death. To walk with the Lord, one must put him ahead of family and possessions when they stand in the way of complete commitment. When sent into mission, the messenger relies on the grace of God (Acts 14:26).

Second, the missionary must love others. To love our fellow human beings, one must refrain from judging and condemning. The missionary is called to forgive, to reconcile, to avoid harsh words and bad feelings—to be compassionate as God is compassionate—toward both his fellow missionaries and the local people.

Third, the missionary must live a life of humility. The kingdom is given to those who hunger and thirst for it, who suffer till it comes, who are as defenseless and powerless as children. Though works of righteousness are required, no matter how much is done, the missionary will be an “unworthy servant.” For the Master will never be indebted to the slave.

And, finally, the missionary must share his possessions. Riches are a permanent danger, though poverty is never presented as a goal or asceticism a way of life. Missionaries are to be suspicious of money because it tempts them and those to whom it is given to place their trust in material possessions. The call to sell everything must be seen in the perspective of giving, distributing, and sharing with the saints in order to form community.

2. Appropriate interpretations. As radical demands, these unusual sayings often appear impossible. This may be due to Jesus’ use of paradoxical expressions in order to make striking, unforgettable images. It is useful to form a taxonomy of these statements. On one hand, some of the radical requirements cannot be taken literally: become a child, carry your cross, and give to everyone who asks. These statements are designed, as exaggerated expressions, to suggest that extreme (though not literal) action is necessary. On the other hand, many of these radical demands contain degrees of literalness, that is, they are literal “in some circumstances” over against “in all situations.” In some circumstances, such as going the second mile and letting everything possessed be taken away, the demands apply to events where a greater power inflicts abuse. In every situation, such as renouncing oneself and losing oneself, the demands are definitive orders to obey.

Relevance to Mission

How do these outrageous stipulations apply to contemporary missionaries? A cursory reading of the text reveals an unchanging core of requirements in the shockingly drastic suggestions of the concise and riveting message of Jesus. He leaves no wiggling room (except where the radical requirements cannot be taken literally). He allows no options. There is no debate. Christ must be put above everyone and everything else (Col 1:16-18). He must be obeyed (Luke 6:46).

1. Disturbing challenge. The Lord confronts self-confidence, overturns self-indulgence, and shatters self-sufficiency. Faced with these demands, the missionary feels powerless. And, even when the radical expressions are placed in their contexts, they are still disturbing. There is always the temptation to diminish their relevance, to decrease their importance. One can kill their intensity through endless exegesis. Or, as it has often happened, one can reduce their rigors by assigning them to certain groups, such as monastic orders, which relieves the masses of their responsibility. Though the interpretation of these extreme demands is not always literal, they cannot be set aside as simply pious daydreaming.

When the situation warrants it, missionaries must risk their lives. When circumstances require it, they must share their material possessions, must forgive their oppressors, and must walk humbly among the proud. Of course, the committed will constantly fail (though they must not declare the undertaking impossible nor assign the responsibility to someone else). Instead, missionaries will suffer the tension and reproach associated with the challenge of their calling. Rather than alleviate the pain through clever interpretation, rather than relegate the task to others, ambassadors of the gospel will take seriously the radical demands of their Lord (in spite of the disturbance these requirements bring). Missionaries accept being challenged beyond their capability, troubled by their failures in trying to do the difficult, but they are happy that it ignites their faith to anticipate the fullness of the kingdom, to dream of heaven where these extreme commitments will be a way of life.

2. Deliberate acceptance. The motive for accepting the extravagant demands of Jesus revolves around the coming of the kingdom. The sovereignty of God calls for radical change—conversion (Mark 1:14–15). The reign of God overturns established norms, traditional structures, and past behavior. A new lifestyle, a comprehensive reorientation of values, is required. When these demands are detached from the kingdom, they slide into rigid legalism. When stripped of the kingdom connection, they become misguided humility that has no place in missionary service (Col. 2:20–23).

The motive for living these radical requirements is threefold. First, they are a stepping stone to being with him (Mark 3:14; 5:18). To walk with him, to be his disciple, means sharing his mission, accepting his fate. Thus, we leave family and face opposition to be “worthy” of him (Matt 10:37–38), to be his disciple (Luke 14:26–27; 33). Second, these extravagant demands are the way of being godly. In other words, the reason to love others, especially those who do not love us, is to become like God (Matt 5:45). We are called to “be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect” (Matt 5:48). This “perfection” or maturity is unconditional love, namely, sacrificing oneself for the good of others. By behaving in this way, the follower of Christ “lives in God and God [lives] in him” (1 John 4:7–11, 16b).

Third, these outrageous requirements are an avenue of blessing. The missionary accepts the difficult conduct required by Jesus with good reason. In announcing the extraordinary demands, the Lord mentioned what—at first glance—might appear to be a self-seeking motive. Such attitudes and behaviors are the conditions for having treasures in heaven (Matt 19:21), obtaining life (Mark 9:43), or entering the kingdom (Mark 9:47). Everything surrendered for Jesus’ sake will be restored a hundred times over (Mark 10:30). Deeds done in secret will be rewarded openly (Matt 6:6). Therefore, the messenger of God becomes a servant, shares with the poor, avoids anger, does not judge (or condemn), endures violence, and loves his enemies because rewards accompany such conduct. In other words, silhouetted behind these challenging demands is the golden rule: “do unto others what you would have others do unto you” (Matt 7:12). Clearly, such attitudes and behaviors have their compensation (Luke 6:38).

Radical living is not the commitment of a select few, elite saints huddled in a secluded community off the beaten path. The extraordinary demands of Jesus are addressed to all who believe. Taken as a whole, situated in their proper context, and correctly understood, these outrageous requirements are not—in the first century or in the twenty-first century—the responsibility of any particular group. They involve all who claim Jesus as their Lord. If missionaries had been more attentive to this fact in the past, if they were more attentive to it today, the aroma of Christianity would be compelling and the mission of God would be nearer to what he wanted it to be.

After attending Abilene Christian University and Fuller Theological Seminary, Ed Mathews received his Doctor of Missiology in 1980. He taught missions for thirty-eight years at Abilene Christian University. He was chairman of the Department of Missions for twelve of those years. During his tenure, he taught various missions courses: Theology of Mission, World Religions, Ethnotheology, History of Missions, Missionary Research, and Leadership Training by Extension. He retired in 2008. Ed continues to live in Abilene, Texas. He uses his time to write on missions, teach a Bible class on Sunday morning, and chair the mission committee at a local congregation.

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Review of Gary A. Haugen, The Locust Effect: Why the End of Poverty Requires the End of Violence

Gary A. Haugen and Victor Boutros. The Locust Effect: Why the End of Poverty Requires the End of Violence. Kindle ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. 385 pp. $9.99.

This book made me extremely angry. I seethed with righteous indignation for the entire first half of the volume. Gary Haugen is the founder of International Justice Mission, an international human rights agency that provides service to “impoverished victims of violent abuse and oppression in the developing world” (Kindle locs. 149–51). His book begins with several gut-wrenching illustrations of injustice in the majority world. From Yuri, the small Peruvian child who was raped and left bloodied in the street while her assailants paid off the court and went scot-free, to the Indian family enslaved by a small debt who, children and all, break up large rocks into gravel while their debt gets larger year after year and who are beaten near to death by the police if they try to escape.

With emphasis given to sex trafficking, enslavement, the poor being forced off their land, the prevalence of violence, human rights, and the incompetency of the police and the courts, the central thesis of this book is that unless we intentionally focus on criminal injustice, our efforts to ease or eradicate poverty will be unsuccessful—“endemic to being poor is a vulnerability to violence, or the way violence is right now, catastrophically crushing the global poor” (Kindle locs. 138–39).

I will admit that though I have spent many years of my life living in the majority world, and an equal number of years directing holistic ministry efforts among the world’s poor, I had not made the link between ongoing crushing poverty and criminal injustice. The agency with which I work has successful ministries in digging wells and providing clean water, preventative medicine, health clinics, child sponsorship, microfinance, church planting, ministerial training—the sorts of things many are involved with. But we have never had ministries to better equip or train the police, to provide scholarships or books to lawyers and judges, or to publicly confront the structural sins of the justice systems where we work. Without changing the criminal justice system, all of our well-intentioned efforts can be completely wiped out, like when a plague of locusts sweeps through. The buzzwords—development, empowerment, sustainability—mean little if there is not an underlying foundation of justice.

It is only in the second half of the book, when Haugen and Boutros begin to share some actual case studies of efforts to address injustice, that I began to see the faintest glimmer of hope. With a grant from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, sex trafficking was greatly reduced in Cebu City, Philippines. “But,” as the authors state, “there is no silver bullet.” An old Indian man who had devoted his life to studying the law, when asked why the police and the court systems don’t provide justice for the common person, said they were not designed for that. They were established during colonial times and were designed to protect the wealthy and the country’s resources for the elite, not to provide justice for the poor. Indeed, affecting change will be like emptying an Olympic-sized swimming pool one cup at a time.

Over a century ago the police forces in cities like New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and Tokyo were completely corrupt. Today they are not. The value of The Locust Effect is highlighting an issue and raising consciousness. Do not neglect this book. The more who are aware, the more will be called to do something.

Doug Priest

Executive Director

CMF International

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Review of Gailyn Van Rheenen, Missions: Biblical Foundations and Contemporary Strategies, with Anthony Parker, 2nd ed.

Gailyn Van Rheenen. Missions: Biblical Foundations and Contemporary Strategies. With Anthony Parker. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2014. 512 pp. Hardcover. $26.47.

In the new edition of Missions: Biblical Foundations and Contemporary Strategies, Gailyn Van Rheenen, with Anthony Parker, significantly broadens Van Rheenen’s first edition. By examining the expansive theological underpinnings of missio Dei, as well as current strategic missionary methods, Van Rheenen allows the practice of mission to grow out of God’s call to missions, into a transformational knowledge of practical ministry.

The book is divided into nineteen chapters, beginning with the overarching metanarrative of missio Dei in the Bible. Since this is a massive undertaking, I expected only a cursory nod to the biblical perspective on missions. However, the writers do an excellent job of bringing the central theme of the missionary story of God into focus in the first few chapters. Van Rheenen and Parker have drawn upon their numerous years of both academic and field experience to present the biblical foundations of mission.

Following the historical section are three chapters that stress the motive or “heart allegiance” for being a missionary and various types of missionaries, followed by the cycle of being a missionary. These chapters’ practical nature makes them valuable to the reader interested in becoming a missionary. Pre-departure through reentry time periods are surveyed. Because preparation and in-depth training is so vital to the success of long-term service, even prefield educational classes are suggested.

Readers should appreciate Van Rheenen’s efforts to communicate the nature of mission in the history of the church. The God who made covenant with the people of Israel, making them a light to the nations, is the same God who inspires missionaries today to stand up to injustice and spread the faith around the globe. Human history—and mission history—is a story of “people in relationship to God.”

It’s all about relationships! Another theme of the book is the need for culturally sensitive eyes as we approach cross-cultural missions. Foci on cultural awareness, living incarnationally, entering a new culture, learning from those around you, and becoming multicultural place the emphasis right where it needs to be—on the cross-cultural missionary. Although Van Rheenen does not give the missionary recruit all the tools needed to be successful, he does provide tools to begin to work out how to cross cultural boundaries successfully.

Much has been written about strategies for missions. This book arguably boils strategy down to the essentials and gives models and examples for planting and nurturing churches. The question, “What do I do about the money?” is addressed in a chapter on using money in missions and just may eliminate some of the serious dilemmas that historically have resulted in “division, jealousy, and trauma” on the field. New missionaries, and some old ones too, have a tendency to be naïve about money in initial stages of ministry. This chapter is a great place to start the discussion for making plans prior to reaching the field.

Van Rheenen does not shy away from the controversy associated with short-term missions but instead embraces the debate in chapter eighteen, “The Benefits and Challenges of Short-Term Missions.” He states, “North Americans who minister in a Third World culture are spiritually touched and transformed and begin to see the world with new eyes. The recipients of the missions, however, are frequently impacted in negative, though unintentional, ways” (431). Van Rheenen acknowledges the challenges of short-term missions and encourages people facilitating missions in modern churches to see both short-term and long-term efforts as vital to reaching the whole world.

The book accomplishes its task by including case studies and examples from current scenarios around the world, taking the reader on a journey of discovery in the world of missions. “Jim and Julie” (fictive prospective missionaries) are used to engage the reader and better assist in seeing ourselves in the role of missionary. Each chapter concludes with a “Reflection and Application” section that asks questions related to the chapter’s material, allowing the reader to apply the newly gathered information to her own life and ministry. “The Personal Inventory” portion of this section requires the student to reflect personally on what God is calling her to do with the newly gleaned material.

Van Rheenen’s highly revised book makes a fresh contribution to the education and preparation of prospective missionaries and new believers alike. This book could easily serve as an excellent resource or textbook for an introductory college course on missions, or for a congregation considering mission and cross-cultural engagements. By forming the conceptual framework for missions in theology and practice, this book helps the reader see herself in God’s call.

Linda Whitmer

Dean of the School of Intercultural Studies

Johnson University

Knoxville, Tennessee

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Review of Scott W. Sunquist, Understanding Christian Mission: Participation in Suffering and Glory

Scott W. Sunquist. Understanding Christian Mission: Participation in Suffering and Glory. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2013. 448 pp. Hardcover. $21.48.

Fuller Theological Seminary has a long history of leadership in the global mission movement, and the recent contribution of the dean of the School of Intercultural Studies furthers that reputation. Scott Sunquist, dean since 2012, provides a comprehensive, balanced, and fresh introduction to world missions with his recently published book, Understanding Christian Mission: Participation in Suffering and Glory. The weighty (448 page) volume is intended to serve as an introductory textbook, and would be most suitable for upper-level undergraduate or introductory graduate-level studies. It has been particularly well received in the missiological discipline.1

Several aspects of Sunquist’s personal background find expression in his writing. First, he is an academically accomplished historian, with earned degrees from Gordon-Conwell (MDiv) and Princeton (PhD) and a combined total of 27 years as professor of church and missions history at Trinity Theological College (Singapore), Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, and now Fuller. He is author of several books, most notably the (to date) two-volume History of the World Christian Movement, coauthored with Dale Irvin.2 As a result, Understanding Christian Mission is replete with historical perspective and a wealth of footnotes that reveal a familiarity with primary sources and wide exposure to current literature, both academic and popular. Second, Sunquist is an ordained pastor of the Presbyterian Church (USA) whose personal theological leanings are also shaped significantly by Pentecostal pneumatology and Eastern Orthodox spirituality.3 The volume is richly theological throughout, bringing Orthodox and “Spiritual” (to use Sunquist’s term) correctives to an ecumenical Protestant perspective. Within that mix, he also values the contributions of Roman Catholicism and Evangelicalism, so that the volume at times feels like a round-table conversation. Third, Sunquist is a missionary and evangelist at heart, having served in Singapore for eight years and with Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship for six years. Thus, while the pragmatic contributions of his book take a tertiary position behind history and theology, he still writes with the added flair of first-hand experience and with conviction of the essentiality of active evangelism.

Understanding Christian Mission is organized into three parts: History, Theology, and Practical Issues. Thus he follows the tripartite structure that has become standard in missiological introductions of recent years4 but alters the standard order, giving history the primary place before theology. This is not a denigration of theology but rather an admission that constructive theology relies upon a clear perception of our current historical situation. The entire volume—all three sections—ends up being quite pointedly theological, as the book’s thesis demonstrates: “Mission is from the heart of God, to each context, and it is carried out in suffering in this world for God’s eternal glory” (xii). The Preface expands on this thesis, illuminating the all-important interplay of suffering and glory that Sunquist traces throughout the volume. The Introduction is substantive (21 pages) and helpful but somewhat disjointed, covering the history of the discipline of missiology, the varied definitions of mission, and nine “contextual concerns” that shape the current missiological discussion.

Part 1 covers mission history in five chapters. Ancient and Medieval Mission surprisingly skips over the New Testament era to focus on the monastic movements of the fourth through fifteenth centuries. Colonial Missions, Part 1, covers the global expansion of Roman Catholicism. Colonial Missions, Part 2, fills a common lacuna with its presentation of early Catholic and Protestant missions to the ancient Christian peoples of the Near East, then presents an overview of missions to the First Nations of North America. Chapters 4 and 5 are an overview of Western Missions (1842–1948) and Postcolonial Missiologies (1948 to present), with significant emphasis on the changing missional thrust of the conciliar movements (Edinburgh, IMC, WCC, Lausanne, etc.). In each phase of history, Sunquist focuses on the “issues” that shaped missiological thought and practice: slavery, colonialism, confrontation with other religions, the role of women, unity in mission, secular theologies, and the rise of Pentecostalism, just to name a few. These “issue” discussions are elucidating and well chosen, but due to the breadth of coverage the factual historical overview is at times quite brief. The historically minded missions professor will want to provide supplemental material for his or her students.

Part 2 is the theological heart of the volume, presenting mission as flowing from the Triune God. Chapter 6, “Creator God as the Sending Father,” may be described as a well-worded restatement of storied theology in a missional hermeneutic, such as has become common fare in the vein of Chris Wright’s landmark work.5 Chapter 7, “Jesus, Sent as the Suffering and Sacrificing Son,” is a particularly well-rounded presentation of the centrality of Christ in Old Testament expectations, Gospel stories, early church experience, and eschatological fulfillment, with clear extrapolations for missions (most notably the nature of the gospel and the crucial role of suffering). In light of the faith malaise that confronts today’s university and seminary students, this chapter is especially appreciated. Chapter 8, “Holy Spirit in Mission,” is less impressive. The discussion of the Holy Spirit is generally helpful, but only occupies 13 pages before the attention turns completely to the missiological concepts of culture and contextualization for 26 pages. The rather tenuous connection is that the Holy Spirit works in all cultures. In the end, neither pneumatology nor culture theory is presented with the richness it deserves.

Sunquist describes Part 3 alternatively as an ecclesiology and as pragmatic issues facing mission today. It is some of each. Chapter 9 is indeed a very good ecclesiology, centering the church’s dual raison d’être in worship and witness. Chapter 10 then zooms in on witness, defining the church’s evangelistic role in a way that is biblically broad, evangelically sound, and full of conviction. Sunquist remarks, “There is something to offend pretty much everyone in this chapter” (315); I, for one, thought it right on target. Chapter 11 is less provocative—a basic introduction to the urban challenge such as one might get if Conn and Ortiz’s tome were boiled down to a concentrate.6 Chapter 12, on partnership, is particularly disappointing. Sunquist seems hardly to be aware of the significant dependency issues that are still propagated in the name of partnership, or at least does nothing to help students of mission become aware of them.7 The final chapter, on spirituality, is a superbly fitting conclusion, tying history, theology, and ecclesiology into one personally motivating package, taking a page from Bosch’s Spirituality of the Road.8

Helps at the end of the book include an appendix chart of twentieth-century ecumenical councils, an extensive bibliography organized topically, and scriptural and topical indexes.

The above summary highlights several of the strengths of the volume: a strongly theological approach, a thought-provoking historical analysis, and bold and faithful chapters on Christology, ecclesiology, evangelism, and spirituality. Another laudable characteristic of Sunquist’s writing is his ability to introduce major movements of Christianity in terms apprehensible to students. For example, his brief but well-placed introductions to the dispensationalism of J. N. Darby (110–11), Pentecostalism and A. B. Simpson (128), Hoekendijk and the Social Gospel (140–42), and the emergence of evangelicalism (159–61) help bring students up to speed without veering off topic. In general, Sunquist is to be commended for staying focused on mission thought while drawing perspective from a wide swath of religious and secular history.

Teachers of mission face a choice of approaches for an introductory missions course. Sunquist’s strengths and weaknesses can best be seen in comparison with other text options.9 One widely used text is Ruth Tucker, From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya: A Biographical History of Christian Missions.10 While Sunquist offers a much broader introduction to mission than Tucker, the motivational and personal element that comes from reading stories of missionaries past is one of the most significant holes in Sunquist’s history.11 Consequently, a pairing of Sunquist and Tucker would be most welcome for students. Gailyn Van Rheenen, Missions: Biblical Foundations and Contemporary Strategies, offers a much more strategic, how-to approach;12 Sunquist does not touch such practical aspects as worldview, culture shock, sustainability, church planting strategies, or reentry. Anthropology, long a staple component of missiology, gets barely a second glance. Students preparing for a missionary career would do well to start with Sunquist as a foundation for strategic training in the vein of Van Rheenen. And then there’s Bosch. While David Bosch’s Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission should not be classified as introductory-level, it shares much in common with Sunquist: historical-theological study of mission, trinitarian rooting of the missio Dei, and concern for evangelical ecumenism. Each of Bosch’s twelve “Elements of an Emerging Ecumenical Missionary Paradigm” finds clear expression in Sunquist (though without Bosch’s clarity of organization). However, a comparison with Part 1 of Bosch—164 pages of biblical exegesis—reveals Sunquist’s final major weakness. The bulk of Sunquist’s theology is systematic rather than biblical.13 Sunquist’s approach avoids Bosch’s neglect of the Old Testament and the Holy Spirit but fails to offer students the richness of insight that comes through exegetical wrestling with the most primary of primary sources: the Holy Scriptures.14

Even with its shortcomings, Understanding Christian Mission stands as one of the most well-rounded introductions to Christian mission today. Teachers of mission would do well to consider it as a key textbook, especially if supplemented as noted above. Moreover, students of any discipline who want a one-volume entrance to the world of missiology will do well to start here. Sunquist is to be thanked for this key contribution; may many take up his call to participate in the suffering and glory of Christ!

Danny Reese

Missionary

Huambo, Angola

1 Understanding Christian Mission is the recipient of the 2014 Christianity Today Book Award for “Best in Missions/Global Affairs” (http://christianitytoday.com/ct/2014/january-february/2014-christianity-today-book-awards.html) and is highlighted on the list of “Fifteen Outstanding Books of 2013 for Mission Studies,” International Bulletin for Missionary Research 38, no. 2 (April 2014): 101. More acclaim for the book, as well as five video clips of Sunquist’s own thoughts on the volume, can be found at http://bakerpublishinggroup.com/books/understanding-christian-mission/287660.

2 Dale T. Irvin and Scott Sunquist, History of the World Christian Movement, 2 vols. (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2001–2012). Other publications of note are Scott Sunquist, ed., A Dictionary of Asian Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001) and Scott Sunquist and Caroline N. Becker, eds., A History of Presbyterian Missions, 1944–2007 (Louisville, KY: Geneva Press, 2008).

3 Sunquist’s interest in Syrian and other Eastern Orthodox perspectives finds expression in his preponderance of quotes from the Philokalia, one of his primary “conversation partners” (18). This perspective, somewhat lacking in most missiological literature, contributes to the freshness of Sunquist’s writing.

4 For example, A. Scott Moreau, Garry R. Corwin, and Gary B. McGee, Introducing World Missions: A Biblical, Historical, and Practical Survey, Encountering Mission (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2004); Craig Ott and Stephen Strauss with Timothy C. Tennent, Encountering Theology of Mission: Biblical Foundations, Historical Developments, and Contemporary Issues, Encountering Mission (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010); Zane G. Pratt, M. David Sills, and Jeffrey K. Walters, Introduction to Global Missions (Nashville: B&H Publishing, 2014).

5 Christopher J. H. Wright, The Mission of God: Unlocking the Bible’s Grand Narrative (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2006).

6 Harvie M. Conn and Manuel Ortiz, Urban Ministry: The Kingdom, the City, and the People of God (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2001).

7 He rightly presents partnership as a great necessity of missions today, but only hints at the difficulties through his mention (390) of Jonathan Bonk’s Missions and Money: Affluence as a Western Missionary Problem, rev. ed (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2007). But Bonk deals exclusively with affluence as a personal relational issue for rich missionaries among poor societies; his book does not attempt to address systemic dependency of churches, theological education, short-term missions, etc. For a convincing critique of the failure of the partnership paradigm in light of these difficulties, see Robert Reese, Roots and Remedies of the Dependency Syndrome in World Missions (Pasadena, CA: William Carey Library, 2010), esp. 91–99.

8 David J. Bosch, A Spirituality of the Road, Missionary Studies 6 (Scottdale, PA: Herald Press, 1979).

9 Perhaps the most similar option to Sunquist is Timothy Tennent, Invitation to World Missions: A Trinitarian Missiology for the Twenty-First Century, Invitation to Theological Studies Series (Grand Rapids: Kregel, 2010). Both adopt a trinitarian theological foundation, both are somewhat weak in strategic pragmatics, but Sunquist offers a depth of historical insight that surpasses Tennent.

10 Ruth A. Tucker, From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya: A Biographical History of Christian Missions, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2004).

11 William Carey receives a few sentences; David Brainerd gets twelve words; Robert Moffat, Mary Slessor, Brother Andrew, and Jim Elliot receive not even a mention.

12 Gailyn Van Rheenen, Missions: Biblical Foundations and Contemporary Strategies, with Anthony Parker, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2014).

13 The key exceptions are the four “windows” into Jesus’ mission, brief exegetical studies taken from the Gospels, Acts, and Revelation (221–25).

14 One danger of Sunquist’s style of systematic theology is the easy intermingling of Scripture with other sources. For example, in his 13-page exposition of the Holy Spirit’s role in mission, Sunquist quotes ancient and medieval theologians almost as often (9 times) as he quotes Scripture (11 times), effortlessly elevating their writings to similar authoritative heights—a subtle move that students may not be able to perceive or evaluate.

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Review of Zane Pratt, Jeff K. Walters, and M. David Sills, Introduction to Global Missions

ZANE PRATT, M. DAVID SILLS, AND JEFF K. WALTERS. Introduction to Global Missions. Nashville: B&H Academic, 2014. 280 pp. $34.99.

Zane Pratt, M. David Sills, and Jeff Walters offer a new introductory text for undergraduate and seminary students on the nature and challenges of global missions. Introduction to Global Missions contains minimal footnotes and concise definitions of important nomenclature as it builds a cumulative case for missions, especially to underserved and unreached people groups. Divided into four sections, the book explores biblical and theological foundations of missions, the history of global missions, reflections on culture and contextualization, and missions practices, particularly emphasizing church planting and discipleship.

The volume initially appears to be a welcome contribution for the conundrum of many introductory courses in missions: the choice between the standard, highly technical works (few of which garner even a mention in this book) or texts so basic, so introductory, that they serve students little, if at all. Written by three experienced practitioner-scholars with previously published material in the field, this volume looked to fill the gap in a meaningful way. Unfortunately, Introduction to Global Missions ultimately disappoints with its narrow theological vision, often dated and clunky syntax, and unnecessary caricatures of those outside the evangelical fold.

From the outset it is an echo chamber of mutual affirmation. The book is written by three men who currently or previously were colleagues at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, published by B&H Academic (an arm of the Southern Baptist Convention’s Lifeway Christian Resources), and endorsed almost exclusively by Southern Baptists. A more forthcoming title would have been Introduction to Southern Baptist Global Missions. The text becomes increasingly narrow in its perspective and application as it progresses. It is not only lacking in the use of gender-inclusive language, due undoubtedly to the explicit complementarian perspective of the book, but there is no mention of women serving in any form of missions outside of the preface (vii) and a brief nod to Lottie Moon and Amy Carmichael (124). Throughout the volume, when the authors say “Christian” what they really mean is evangelical Christian. This form of “orthodox evangelical theology” consists of specific theological particularities including: Adam and Eve were historical persons (71), a calvinistic orientation on the sovereignty of God (73–74), biblical inerrancy (75, 211), original sin (76), eternal conscious torment in hell which will include the unreached (77, 83–88), strictly complementarian roles in regard to the office of pastor/elder/overseer (211), and yet a deafening silence and openness on specific eschatological interpretations (90–91) and other theological positions not central to the SBC tribe. This is most clearly seen in the description of an “unreached” people group as a population “in which less than 2% of the population is Evangelical Christians” (29, emphasis added).

Written in language like a popular-level work, this title would be inappropriate as a seminary-level textbook. This is made clear by the explicit identification of recent high school graduates as the readers of the text (149). Ironically, one of the most succinct and insightful sections of the volume, which discusses the challenges of culture shock and language acquisition, was excerpted from another work by M. David Sills (224–31). This unit merely serves to highlight the quality with which this entire text could have been written but was ultimately unable to accomplish.

Introduction to Global Missions also employs caricature to distinguish itself from other parts of the Christian tradition with which it has sometimes significant difference. This includes assumptions about issues like hermeneutics:

The fact that unregenerate men and women are capable of reading contradictory messages into the text of Scripture is no reason to despair of the ability of believers, with the illumination of the Holy Spirit, to discern the meaning of the Scripture clearly. Many methods of popular Bible study do indeed lead to wildly divergent interpretations of the text, but such methods often have little to do with what the text actually says in its context, and responsible exegesis leads to remarkably consistent results. (75)

There is also an immense minimization (less than a page covering the first five centuries after the New Testament) and caricaturing of Roman Catholic missions history:

Whether in the new world or in Asia, the lasting legacy of Roman Catholic missions was often a syncretistic mix of Catholic Christianity and animistic religions. Forced conversions, cultural differences, and poor methods of contextualization left many “converts” continuing to worship their old gods but with different names. Churches replaced shrines and saints replaced pagan gods, but only on the outside. Roman Catholic missions opened the world to Christianity, but later missionaries, both Catholic and Protestant, faced great difficulty in unraveling the mix left behind by the early conquering churches. (106)

This prejudice is heightened by the entirety of the sixth chapter, which reflects only the positive contributions of “healthy missions,” a designation used numerous times in surveying the expansion of the Christian faith in “the Great Century and beyond” (115).

Lacking in overall depth and scope, Introduction to Global Mission fails to engage the contributions of many important scholars and practitioners or the larger Christian tradition generally. It provides the reader with no acknowledgement of any positive developments in missiology outside of Protestantism and recognizes no developments or documents to be as important as the Southern Baptist Convention’s International Mission Board and the Baptist Faith and Message, with an occasional nod to other evangelical organizations like the Lausanne Committee for World Evangelization.

Ultimately, this text will be helpful to those wishing to create an introductory course in missions for conservative evangelical undergraduate students who theologically resemble the Southern Baptist Convention. Those looking for an introductory text outside of this slice of evangelicalism would do well to look elsewhere.

Michael Hanegan

Writer/Blogger

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

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Making Love with Leviathan: Resisting Amnesia from Placeless Economies

How can bioregionalism cultivate an enviro-missional imagination? Watershed discipleship is a local bioregional response to ecological crisis, but the watershed may also be extended into a theological framework that addresses the destruction of the uninhabited spaces of air and water called the global commons. Because industrialized humanity suffers from placelessness (ignorance about its global context), it cannot trace the effects of the waste it dumps in the places beyond the horizon, so it forgets about them. Placelessness leads to societal amnesia. By imaginatively integrating scientific, mythic, and philosophical concepts, this essay develops a bioregional response to the problem of the global commons. The author argues for local myths that are informed by global ecological systems and founded on a relational worldview that resists the societal amnesia induced by industrialization and cost-benefit analysis.

Something black rose from behind them, like a smudge at first, then widening, becoming deeper. The smudge became a cloud; and the cloud divided again into five other clouds, spreading north, east, south and west; and then they were not clouds at all but birds.

from The Birds by Daphne du Maurier

The apocalyptic film The Birds, by Alfred Hitchcock, reveals a deep-seated fear of what is beyond the horizon. Adapted from Daphne du Maurier’s short story, the film takes place on the edge of terrestrial habitation. In Hitchcock’s film, the birds come from beyond the horizon. Over the course of the film, thousands of diverse species show up on the doorstep of human civilization, hungry for human blood. In the film as well as the short story, the birds peck the human eyes as a symbolic attack from forces that come from beyond visual perception. As creatures of the wind, birds have the unique evolutionary capacity to travel beyond the world of terrestrial, two-legged humans. Tapping into an ancient fear not of birds but of natural apocalypse, Hitchcock re-mythologized chaotic natural processes that seem to communicate vengeance.1 Like the First Testament’s plagues, the story describes nature preying upon human civilization. The Birds is rooted in a real event that occurred in Santa Cruz, California, during the summer of 1961.2 Hitchcock researched the event during the initial design phase of his film. Hundreds of sooty shearwaters crashed into windshields, windows, and buildings; thousands of dead shearwaters covered streets. Needless to say, the birds did not fly around tearing the eyeballs out of people.

With one of the longest migratory patterns among birds, shearwaters cover up to 39,000 miles annually.3 As a non-sedentary species, shearwaters are creatures from beyond the horizon. The orientation of their life history revolves around travel patterns between breeding and feeding grounds. The 1961 event in Santa Cruz remained a mystery, but many suggested the strange mass fatality was rooted within the chaotic seas. Scientists have hypothesized that the shearwaters had been poisoned by a substance called domoic acid that recently has had detrimental effects on humans.

These malevolent effects came to light in 1987 when a mysterious food poisoning outbreak hit Canada. Epidemiologists traced the ingested food to blue mussels harvested in the eastern waters of Prince Edward Island.4 Officials were confused by the unusual symptoms such as short-term memory loss, confusion, and death in some cases. Over the next few years, discovering the substance and origin of the poison proved to be an ecological murder mystery with many twists and turns. In the end, investigators found domoic acid to be the cause. Today the symptoms are called “amnesic shellfish poisoning” (ASP). Within a category of related eco-toxic substances, ASP can come from eating shellfish at key moments in the movement of energy in oceanic trophic systems. Succinctly stated, domoic acid and other similar toxins are expressed in dinoflagellates and diatoms. The allelopathic poisons serve a similar function that poisons serve in terrestrial plants—defense against predation. As filter feeders, shellfish are not affected by the poisons but store the compounds. Consequently, the concentration is magnified. Known as bioaccumulation, toxins often become concentrated in fat stores that, when ingested, have detrimental effects on the predator. The behavior of shearwaters in Santa Cruz can be explained by an overdose of domoic acid.

Dinoflagellates and other plankton are located at the base of a massive oceanic food web. Moving from the oceanic deep to the surface during various life cycles, plankton populations and species diversity are fundamentally determined by available nutrients within the system. During massive phytoplankton blooms, allelopathic toxins become concentrated, killing various types of predators including fish that swim through the blooms. Further, the toxins often become airborne as the wind disturbs the surface of the ocean and blows microscopic plankton into the air with the sea spray. During such unique events, coastal residents often suffer with intense allergy attacks from the wind-borne poisons.

Recently, changes in phytoplankton assemblies—both specie variety and population size—have been observed. The chaotic system of specie assembly, allelopathic expression, and massive phytoplankton blooms has only recently been statistically linked to global warming and nutrient loading from terrestrial agriculture. Many dangerous blooms occur just off the coast of areas where anthropogenic nutrient-loaded waters are dumped into the seas. Interestingly, the nutrients are the excess of city waste or chemical fertilizers.5

Hitchcock’s film and the 1987 discovery of the ASP outbreak serve as a kind of realized natural apocalypse. The film mythologizes, while the ASP outbreak parabolizes. The psychological thriller mythologizes a fear from beyond the horizon, while the ASP outbreak traces the cause and effects of industrialization on the placeless human global commons, particularly sea and air. The ASP outbreak describes the realization of a modern perspective on the global commons—a worldview which establishes the failure of industrial humanity to care for the uninhabited spaces that constitute the global commons. The effects of such a relationship with the global commons loop back from the mythic horizon and enculturate a profound memory loss in industrial cultures. This vision elucidates the need to cultivate a missional imagination robust enough to react to industrial myopia and cultivate ecological activism that verbalizes indigenous reconciliation with the primordial that dwells beyond the horizon. Bioregionalism is one fertile field for cultivating this relational re-imagining of the global commons that can value indigenous theology rooted in local ecology. The concern governing my entire exploration will be how bioregionalism, as both a philosophy and social activism, can provide a linguistic structure for an indigenous enviro-missional imagination. Considering the profound impact the corporate individual has on the global commons, any bioregional movement must concern itself with more than simply the local watershed. To that end, I will integrate mystical, theological, and ecological perspectives of the global commons that I hope will goad literate people into a renewed perspective on the great uninhabited spaces. The global commons are more than the fisheries of the great upwellings and more expansive than the polluted airs surrounding urban areas. Rather, the global commons are ecological verbalizations of the primordial. How does one protect the air? How do communities transfer environmental angst into action? How do bioregional activists defend expansive uninhabited spaces? The first step is to foster a bioregional cosmology.

The Extended Phenotype of the Industrial Human

Nutrient overload (eutrophication) is the main cause of the worldwide increase of harmful algal blooms (HABs). Furthermore, research confirms HABs’ increase is humanly generated (anthropogenic): due to the agricultural and waste management practices of modern habitation.6 Eutrophication is a peculiar effect of human behavior rooted in the placeless cultures of industrial capitalism and globalization. This behavior is both an extreme localism (a kind of hermeticism) and also a placelessness (exhibiting an ignorance of context). The flush of a toilet from a residence or the flush of fertilizer from a corn field are beyond the responsibility of the individual. Fecal matter and fertilizer move beyond the horizon to the mythical beyond; ignoring what is carried away by water, modern humanity only considers materials that are quantifiable within political, city-state boundaries. Further, by the arbitrary creation of borders and property, humanity loses a sense of responsibility for connected global processes. Eutrophication is a symptom of global industrialization, which ignores the consequences of human productivity within a larger world. I want to argue that eutrophication and other results of human (un)inhabitation are a kind of extended phenotype of the industrial human.

Evolution is measured only when scientists define the unit of selection. Selection since Darwin has been defined according to fitness of the individual as a unit. In 1982, Richard Dawkins coined the term “extended phenotype” to describe a different unit of selection—genes.

The phenotypic effects of a gene are tools by which it levers itself into the next generation, and these tools may “extend” far outside the body in which the gene sits, even reaching deep into the nervous systems of other organisms.7

According to this perspective, the battle of fitness occurs inside the individual organism instead of between individuals. The self-replicating gene, argued Dawkins, is a kind of archetype8 that expresses its visual phenotype as behavior or morphology. Instead of the organism fighting for dominance, the body of the organism is a tool for genetic propagation. In this sense various alleles represent the competitive field of Darwinian dominance.9 The result of the genetic battle is the momentary extension of a specific allele within an organism and providing the fittest phenotype. In essence, the phenotype is the visual extension into the macro-world of a micro-dictated pattern. For Dawkins’s extended phenotype, the extension does not stop at the borders of the individual; phenotypes can extend into the larger world outside the individual. This extension can be expressed in other organisms, including completely different species.10 Often the phenotypic extension alters the behavior of other organisms beyond the carrier of the gene. Beyond this, the extension does not stop with the biotic, but can extend out to the abiotic environment and shape the structure of habitats.

Further, since organisms represent successful combinations of coordinating genes, some have suggested the individual organism is a kind of macro-composite phenotype.11 The composite phenotype represents a cursory boundary in which genes reach a coexistence with other genes; the organism represents a miniature stable ecosystem. In the end, the ultimate quest for the origin of speciation appears to be a circular mirage in which the genetic archetype emanates but also returns. As the arche emanates outward, it interacts with other factors until a composite phenotype is expressed. Many such phenotypes express niche construction in which the environment is changed. Earthworms, beavers, and humans are lucid examples of species that construct niches out of abiotic materials.12 Proponents of niche construction, however, suggest the extended phenotype can extend back upon itself. As the phenotype extends into the environment, the world turns inside out; the internal arche reveals itself as enveloping the outside. Yet as the enfolding occurs, the environment conditions the inhabitant and provides pressure on genetic selection.13

The extended phenotype can help interpret modern human activity. Lacking only empirical evidence to determine the extent of genetic evolution, geneticists have evidence to show how human culture has a profound impact on genetic selection and its related phenotypes. One of the best examples with ample research is the allele of lactose tolerance. Present in only human populations which have had a historic tradition of dairy farming, lactose tolerance was expressed only after the practice of dairy farming was initiated. As a technology of production, domestication and animal husbandry represent a composite phenotypic package that provides the niche for dairy production. Dairy culture, as a stable tradition transmitted to future generations, represents a habitation or niche cultivated from a composite, extended human phenotype. However, the extension of the phenotype boomerangs back into the human as pressure selection for the lactose tolerant allele. As the ecologist Kevin Laland explains, “The selective environments of organisms are not independent of organisms but are themselves partly products of the prior niche-constructing activities of organisms.”14

How does the extended phenotype help explain the ecological quagmire of global industrialization? As masters of production, humans are the ultimate niche engineers. In view of the capacity to shape the environment around us, environmental determinism is untenable. Thus, like the skewed model of linear evolution only originating within the gene, human culture is not simply determined by the environment. For some, the archetypal coding of culture seems to replicate within the mind. However, the cyclical extension of the phenotype back upon itself provides a more nuanced way to understand human behavior. Culture is both a product of the arche within the mind and a byproduct of the chaotic repercussions of niche construction.

Specifically, the speed, quantity, and scope of modern human behavior characterize the niche of globalized industry.15 When production is quickened and quantified for non-regional consumption, a cultural niche is produced. Like any other organism, humans produce resources for habitation; the construction of niche represents a new organization of environmental materials and spaces. The non-regional gaze of industry fixes upon the consistent, rapid, profligate production necessary to feed infinite desire. Consequently, as a hallmark of globalization, time and space are compacted. Resources created over millions of years are decimated within seconds, and artifacts of human production are extricated from tradition to be artifacts without time. As time implodes, the overabundance of industrialization homogenizes space by flattening landscape into a non-referential nowhere. Johannesburg and Nashville are the same place. Not only can I travel there in the blink of an eye, but I can easily confuse both places as the same place. Summarily, the niche of industrialization is a kind of expansive, liminal, and timeless nowhere. Ecologically described, the industrial human niche is a phenotypic extension marked by over-production and indicating a species near extinction.16 The replicating industrial arche is exploding into the world and mixing with a complex planetary system to create a niche that has profound effects on human fitness.

Returning to the story of ASP, industrial production replicates locally, but flows beyond the horizon to a place we know not—the desert oceans. Furthermore, industrial production moves into the uninhabited global commons to sit on the face of the deep. Mining and defecating within the unbounded commons, the extended phenotype of modern cultures cultivates a niche in the beyond. The human niche has exploded into the uninhabited world; shock-waves have stirred the face of the deep. As it explodes into the global commons, humanity cannot trace the effects. In this sense, global industrialization has cultivated a niche for humanity that selects for amnesia. In a timeless, placeless existence, the allele for human memory is profoundly weakened. As overproduction extends into the global commons, the primordial space develops allelopathic toxins of amnesia. This amnesia is both obfuscation and myopia. Like an overloaded field of fertilizer, the wastes of industrialization journey to the place beyond the habited—beyond the horizon. The pathway and its effects are obfuscated due to the chaotic complexity of global air and water. Yet, global air and water are not only the wasteland for industrial defecation but also the source of continued production.17 Like any niche, the environment provides the structure both for energy that leaves the organism and energy that an organism consumes. Humanity cannot trace the effects; and so, obfuscation becomes the germ of a mental myopia that results in societal amnesia.

The Global Commons

By emphasizing the watershed, bioregionalism rightly reorients human perception. Individuals must not only take responsibility for the field they own but for the location of their field within a flow of energy. Whether an individual lives in the uplands of a catchment area or the fluvial flatlands, energy moves from sky to sea and back again. Further, bioregionalism suggests nation-states are inadequate to provide sustainable living. Human life must be placed within a larger watershed than a district, county, or state. Nevertheless, bioregionalism identifies an ecological boundary. Indeed, these frontiers are real and applicable, but the placeless processes of water and air, and wandering lifestyles such as the sooty shearwater’s, require an extension of bioregionalism into a global, mythic space.

International corporations have already defied the boundaries of nation-state and operate in the global airs and waters of planet earth; industrial economies operate on global scales. The quantification of city waste and industrial agriculture are examples of a pervading ethic within placeless globalization. The global commons are uninhabited spaces where industrial economies dump excesses as well as mine abundances. The global commons are different than the terrestrial commons of lake and pasture. Regulated commons have definable boundaries, inhabitants, and access. On the other hand, global commons do not have clear boundaries, do not have human habitation, and do not have non-technological access. From an ecological perspective, the global commons are at once massive reservoirs of energy and conveyor belts of energy. From a cultural perspective, the global commons are at once mythic spaces beyond human boundaries and wild spaces beyond human control. Integrating the two perspectives, the global commons are the locus for ecological cosmology, where chaos and memory are rooted.

Reading Luce Irigaray

Boundaries are very important to bioregionalism as an interdisciplinary movement that uses geography to spatialize space. In fact, the delineation of an ecological border is what provides the first indications of place. For example, Robert Thayer defines the first characteristic of a bioregion as “a physiographically unique place, a geographically legitimate concept, an identifiable region, and an operative spatial unit.”18 The description of place inevitably requires differentiation over against other landscapes, concepts, and ecologies. To cultivate robust, sustainable human communities, it is imperative to identify place. Nevertheless, there can be a forgetfulness or amnesia of the constituents from which place is constructed. Following the suggestion that the global water cycle is a kind of placeless process, Luce Irigaray provides a critique of Western philosophy that can aid in relocating the global commons within Western culture. Irigaray argues Western philosophy has a type of amnesia that marginalizes the birthplace of life. According to Irigaray, Martin Heidegger’s meditation on the relationship of Being to place is a kind of repression. Heidegger suggests man creates the world through logos; the verbal construction of place is the dwelling of Being. We live in what we create. Heidegger uses the concept of a bridge to reveal this in-dwelling:

The bridge . . . does not just connect banks that are already there. The banks emerge as banks only as the bridge crosses the stream. The bridge designedly causes them to lie across from each other. One side is set off against the other by the bridge. . . . With the banks, the bridge brings to the stream the one and the other expanse of the landscape lying behind them. It brings stream and bank and land into each other’s neighborhood. The bridge gathers the earth as landscape around the stream.19

Consequently, the building of a bridge is a concept in which humanity-dwelling-in-the-world names, describes, and brings into relation its environment. However, Irigaray argues Heidegger forgets from which the bridge, the bank, and the stream are constructed:

Built on the void, the bridge joined two banks that, prior to its construction, were not: the bridge made two banks. And further: the bridge, a solidly established passageway, joins two voids that, prior to its construction, were not: the bridge made the void. How not suspend that toward which it goes, that toward which it returns, in a serene awaiting.20

It is the logos, the rational spoken word that first divides the void, the deep, or the chaotic placeless substrate that founds the bridge. Irigaray suggests Western philosophy creates a dwelling at the expense of what cannot be conceptualized. For her, the placeless substrate is fluidity, process, and passage; the dominant metaphor used to concretize the placeless dwelling from which Being lives is air. The air defies boundaries but surrounds and enfolds Being. It is the womb from which life is birthed. Consequently, place is not where boundaries are established, but where boundaries are removed; place is fuzzy. The fluidity of place requires an acceptance of permeability and porosity. Sex and pregnancy provide biological examples of this kind of place:

The fetus is a continuum with the body it is in. . . . It passes from a certain kind of continuity to another through the mediation of fluids: blood, milk. . . .

There are times when the relation of place in the sexual act gives rise to a transgression of the envelop, to a porousness, a perception of the other, a fluidity.21

Irigaray reminds us that the bioregion is enfolded by a larger placeless, uninhabited space. Swirling through the trees, passing through my body, and condensing from another dimension, the global commons are the chaotic waters and hovering spirit.22 The global commons are the ecological unbounded place of cosmology. Later, we will see how this formless space is the beyond-the-horizon location of an imaginal world intersecting the beyond with the line of our perception. For now, I hope to maximize the development of the global commons as the uterus of all bioregions. Global atmosphere and ocean are non-linguistic elements with a fecundity of dwelling spaces. All verbal dwellings, geographical conceptions, and logocentric units are reductions of a larger reality that cannot be named. Whether regions are defined as bioregions or nation-states, these dwellings are already built up from a frothy void. The global commons must be re-mythologized as the primordial elements of water and air. Without a primordial cosmology, uniquely enfleshed in various bioregions, all forms of terrestrial dwelling will be overturned by the primordial froth. Irigaray suggests the need for a relational approach to the primordial in contrast to the logo-centric domination of the void. By remembering the global commons through primordial cosmology, humanity is brought into relation. As society forgets the primordial, the creatures of the deep stir. Stated differently, the extended phenotype of Western globalized culture will wash downstream into the deep where niche construction will quickly precipitate a crash; the Leviathan will play.

The Leviathan and Global Commons

Recently, process theology, chaos theory, and postmodern theopoetics23 have engaged the rich texts and subtexts of ancient Hebrew primordial myths. For my purposes, I want to focus on the Leviathan text of Job 41. The voice that Job has been goading to speak finally speaks in chapter 41. The voice whistles from a whirlwind. Couched as a deluge of questions, the voice asks if Job is aware of the mythic beast called Leviathan:

No one is so fierce as to dare to stir it up. Who can stand before it? Who can confront it and be safe? . . .When it raises itself up the gods are afraid; at the crashing they are beside themselves. . . . It makes the deep boil like a pot. (Job 41:10–11, 25, 31)24

For my purposes, Job is not a book about explaining injustice, but a discursive meditation of losing the mythical cosmology of a world in relation to others.25 The content of God’s response is cosmological, refusing to explain the meaning of the world according to human interests. The voice of God emanates from the same turbulence that shook the roof down upon Job’s children. When the voice responds, it does not provide answer to the question, “Why me?” Rather, the voice overpowers Job. Strictly speaking, Job experiences an epiphany, or in Catherine Keller and Timothy Beal’s language, a “tehophany.” Job is enveloped into chaos. The voice from the air reminds Job of the multiple intelligences beyond the horizon within the deep. The Leviathan is a personification of chaos and the primordial unbounded tehom of Genesis 1.26 Both Keller and Beal see the divine voice from the whirling air as an extreme vision of the divine—not as the master of chaos, but within chaos.

The gods are fearful in the face of the Leviathan. The man-made gods of creation ex nihilo, the gods who tower over creation whipping it into submission, cower at the bubbling surface of the deep. These industrial gods who only view creation through domination are surprised at the self-organizing voice that speaks from the deep; the voice—from the whirlwind that synchronizes into syllables, the message that blooms from billions of independent sun-catching organisms, and the face perceived from the steam of the boiling deep—emanates from a primordial place. The untamed Leviathan from primordial space and time is the material which the Spirit of God hovers over in Genesis and the substance of Job’s tehophany. The synchronicity of worldly elements is a kind of “material mysticism”27 that rips into the industrial world of humanity. Job lives on the surface of reality—as all organisms must do—crying, biting, and retching for survival. Yet, his reality drops into the deep when the voice whistles out of the air. From the same chaotic destruction, a voice of fecundity reseeds a new world. Importantly, the reseeding of new life only begins when Job drowns in a cosmology he does not understand. The violence and oxygenation of the bubbling waters around the Leviathan provide a “chaosmos” that is both self-annihilation and regeneration.28

A chaosmos provides a fruitful context for developing a relational perspective to the world. The objectification of the cosmos is a hallmark of industrialization. Broken into non-regenerative pieces, modern civilization takes the face and the voice out of the world. Cosmological personalities provide the structure to hear the voice that emanates out of self-organizing, self-synchronizing sentience. In Job, the dialogue of the Tempter with the Lord undergirds a perception of the universe that suggests chaotic forces are in dialogue. I would suggest Job loses his capacity to hear the primordial voices as his world is destroyed. The majority of the book is a dialogue with non-primordial sentient beings. He rails against the God of heaven to goad God into a response. Unaware of the dialogue in the air, Job is forced to scream back into the atmospheric abyss. When Job passes through the period of waiting, he accepts the possibility of self-annihilation. Though Job is capable of killing God through curse, he refuses to die as an individual-without-relation. When the voice comes, it offers a renewed world-in-relation via the Leviathan. Being in relation to the tehom, Job is both horrified and soothed. The Leviathan is a lover that regenerates through self-annihilation. I will return to the idea of self-annihilation later. At this stage in the paper, I merely want to argue that Job is brought back into relation with the primordial personalities that destroyed his world. In fact, as the story ends, the reader is told that the Lord-of-the-whirlwind regenerates more abundance for Job. The reader leaves Job at a feast in which his friends offer sympathy for the “evil the Lord had done to him.” We can only assume the scars of the event die with Job. Though Job’s friends provide an easy linear causation back to the Lord, the reader is left with a primordial presence that is at once the face of the Tempter, the heavenly Lord, and the Leviathan. What will bubble up from the deep next is impossible to know. But how do ancient primordial characters relate to our modern problems?

Cost/Benefit Analysis and the Global Commons

A relational worldview is the fuel for myth cultivation. The industrial civilization of objectification will not approach sustainable coexistence on earth because sustainability is living in relation to other beings. The relationship with the global commons must be approached through cosmological mythic structures. The Leviathan entices us and horrifies us. But when the world is objectified, perceptual cataracts develop and we lose sight of the face that rises to the surface. Today, environmental policy-making uses cost/benefit analysis, which is based on the idea that complex wholes can be broken into quantifiable parts.29 Ecosystems and even human life can be counted and fit into a quantifiable economic system. The counting cardinals of modern capitalism demonstrate how blinded industrial society has become to the excess that bubbles out of systems. The excess is part of all holistic systems and a trademark of a chaosmos. Though scientists can count average nutrient overflow from agriculture fields, they cannot count the chaotic relationship nutrients have to a primordial world. We cannot count objects if they are in relation to the primordial. Put differently, we cannot count that which is related to eternity. Cost/benefit analysis is simply a floating island that appears to provide a solid foundation for assessment and risk analysis. Yet the waters are bubbling from the deep on which it floats.

Mundus Imaginalis and the Global Commons

If bioregionalism will offer a more sustainable relationship to the sentience around us, we must develop a mythos beyond regionalism that cultivates relationship to the primordial. From a more philosophical-literary language, the global industrialization of life systems into quantifiable parts represents the objectification of processes, fluidity, and quality. The French philosopher Gaston Bachelard re-mythologized the great global tropes of earth, air, water, and fire. He suggested that an adjective is at the center of the universe not a noun. Objects are merely embodiments of qualities. According to David Miller, a close reader of Bachelard, modern thought forced the substantive into concrete substance.30 In a move towards quantification, “adjectives came to be absorbed into nouns.”31 Nevertheless, at the bottom of the world the philosopher does not find a concrete object but a process, a quality, or a dancing spirit that verbalizes and adjectivizes.

Consequently, if we combine Irigaray’s thought with Bachelard’s, the primordial, unbounded, uninhabited nowhere of the global commons is more properly verbalizations and descriptions of a larger life. This life presents a face to humanity. Like Irigaray’s primordial void, we cannot speak of the ocean as a place, but as a process. The oceans and air vibrate relationality into the cosmos. The Leviathan formulates and verbalizes from the deep.

However, Bachelard offers one final nuance of adjectives that will help us connect the global commons to the work of myth-making from diverse bioregions. Bachelard’s concept of verticality refers to a specific function of adjectives that embody epiphany. Key embodiments of verticality in the world provide a relational connection to humanity that both “soars up” and “stretches” down.32 As Richard Kearney notes, Bachelard’s verticality was a unification of contradictory elements.33 The stretching of space into a vertical expanse instructively images the connectivity and unfinished relationship of the contradictory elements. This is especially instructive for affirming the global commons as the space of primordial tehophany. Job is both enticed and horrified by the Leviathan. There is feasting and also empathy for the evil done. Laughter and horror provide the epiphanic event when the face of the deep personifies onto the human landscape.

For Bachelard, the coupled contradiction compacted ordinary time, disrupted ordinary thought, and pushed the energy and tension into a verticality of height and depth. He claimed the “epiphanic instant” preeminently occurred in the peculiar adjectival speech of poetry. More specifically, the poetic is a kind of imagination that both induces and is induced by the epiphanic instant. Though Bachelard used the literary poem as the vehicle for the imagination to epiphanize, I do not think it follows that we must isolate poetry and bias the cosmological imagination to one specific literary structure. As an ancient oral form, poetry is rooted in narrative dialogue as rhapsodies such as Homer’s so adequately show. But what is the cosmological imagination? Is human imagination merely an escape from reality?

Henry Corbin and the Mundus Imaginalis

We now approach the organ for the human capacity to image mythic archetype—the capacity of imagination. From such diverse thinkers as anthropologist David Graeber and cultural ecologist David Abram, the imagination is a rich subject for exploring the relationship of human thought and ideation with the environmental embodiment of human perception.34 However, for my purposes, I will only briefly elucidate the “mundus imaginalis” of Henry Corbin and the Iranian Islamic mystics.

David Miller has provided an insightful connection between Bachelard’s work and the expansive work of the theosopher Henry Corbin vis-à-vis verticality.35 I will borrow this connection to use the mundus imaginalis as a tool for cultivating a mythic relational posture toward the global commons.

As Corbin notes in a book on Islamic philosophy:

Because it has not had to confront the problems raised by what we call the “historical consciousness,” philosophical thought in Islam moves in two counter yet complementary directions: issuing from the Origin (mabda’), and returning (ma’ad) to the Origin, issue and return both taking place in a vertical dimension. Forms are thought of as being in space rather than in time. Our thinkers perceive the world not as “evolving” in a horizontal and rectilinear direction, but as ascending: the past is not behind us but “beneath our feet.”36

The extended phenotype and the ecological niche effects that return to the archetypal center sit more comfortably in a spatial framework than simply a linear evolutionary model. As we dive deeper into the microcosm, we find a shadow of the macrocosm. A scholar of Iranian Islamic mysticism, Corbin aligns verticality with the ancient esoteric traditions of Islamic mysticism that re-imagined Zoroastrian angelology and Platonic/neo-Platonic thought. Ushered into stages of ascent and descent, verticality defines the space where the mundus imaginalis operates. The imaginal world of Corbin and the ancient theosophers is an intermediary space between sensation and intellect. Without reducing the imaginal world into the fictional imaginary, this intermediary space provides the perception of the ecstatic vision. In the imaginal world, Moses hears the voice from the burning bush, Jacob sees a ladder extending into heaven, and Job hears the voice from the whirlwind.37 An expert on Corbin’s thought, Tom Cheetham explains the imaginal world as giving

access to an intermediate realm of subtle bodies, of real presences, situated between the sensible world and the intelligible. . . . On Corbin’s view all the dualisms of the modern world stem from the loss of the mundus imaginalis: matter is cut off from spirit, sensation from intellection, subject from object, inner from outer, myth from history, the individual from the divine.38

Between the dualisms of Western consciousness, a void exists. The dualism either causes the imaginal to be fantasy and imaginary or the imaginal is a kind of faculty for artists who do not really live in reality anyway. For the ancient Persian theosophers, the mundus imaginalis, or the ‘alam al-mithal, was grounded in a complex cosmology that related to a complex progression that ascended to the divine. This cosmology was expressed as verticality. In a non-mythical sense, the mundus imaginalis is the faculty of the poet who perceives the adjective/adverb that embodies the world. The imaginal is the bridge that snaps discrete components into metaphor and provides the face or person of the world. For Corbin, unless the mundus imaginalis has

a cosmology whose schema can include, as does the one that belongs to our traditional philosophers, the plurality of universes in ascensional order, our Imagination will remain unbalanced, its recurrent conjunctions with the will to power will be an endless source of horrors. We will be continually searching for a new discipline of the Imagination, and we will have great difficulty in finding it as long as we persist in seeing in it only a certain way of keeping our distance with regard to what we call the real, and in order to exert an influence on that real.39

As Cheetham plainly states, the active Imagination must be seen as a faculty that emanates from beyond the human.40 Otherwise, the secularization of today will label the active Imagination as fantasy. The space where imaginative perception congeals from sensation and intellection must be from a primordial beyond. For the Persian Islamic mystics, the ‘alam al-mithal originated from the divine. For bioregionalism, I believe we must connect the sense of the divine with the beyond of the horizon, with the uninhabited global commons where the Leviathan plays in excess. The excess that reverberates and re-extends back into the genetic archetype cannot be calculated or quantified but is the emergent voice of the primordial Leviathan.

For Corbin, the mundus imaginalis is not a morally charged faculty. Like the vertical polarity unifying contradiction, the mundus imaginalis constructs the perception in which we are horrified and elated.41 The active Imagination is the vehicle by which we can hear the voice that whistles from the whirlwind. However, Corbin adamantly argues that without a cosmology that pushes the origin of the imaginal into a supra-consciousness, it will collapse into a one-dimensional secularized world ready to be quantified. For this reason, the tehophanic event signals a moment of decision. The Leviathan threatens to stretch the individual into two. Like Job when the voice emanates from the whirlwind and the deep bubbles forth the Leviathan, we are given a pivotal moment to respond: “On one there is the Death of God and the birth of a Promethean, rapacious, and monstrous Humanity. On the other, Resurrection and the poverty of a life in sympathy with beings.”42

The mundus imaginalis is not an Islamic sensibility. Though Corbin stresses the importance of how the imaginal worked with the mystical cosmology of Iranian Sufism, it does not require a Muslim worldview. We may take a final suggestion from Corbin to place the active Imagination into a context in which it can be used by diverse religious traditions including local Christian theologies. Here I quote Corbin’s use of the Iranian philosopher Ibn ‘Arabi:

“Each being,” says Ibn ‘Arabi, “has as his God only his particular Lord, he cannot possibly have the Whole.”

Here we have a kind of kathenotheism verified in the context of a mystic experience; the Divine Being is not fragmented, but wholly present in each instance, individualized in each theophany.43

Without allowing a specific religious tradition to dominate the divine, Corbin suggests a traditioned theophany that emanates from the esoteric deep. In this sense, we need people from multiple religious traditions to reach into the primordial stories of their own traditions and the primordial space of the global commons and actively perceive what is bubbling in the face of the deep.

For my purposes, Corbin provides a pliable mysticism that avoids exoteric fundamentalism necessary for a bioregional discipleship. Indeed, Job exemplifies the positive use of the mundus imaginalis when he faces the divine presence that emanates from the primordial air; the book closes with Job resurrected and experiencing a “poverty of life in sympathy with beings.” Job’s friends gather around him in sympathy for the “evil the Lord had done to him.” From the whirlwind that killed his family, Job hears the voice of God. Reconciliation is not achieved by the addition of new barns and children. Rather, Job is brought back into a relationship with the primordial deep. God’s voice whistles from this void, and Job’s ability to hear God from the chaos resituates Job in a world infused with the divine presence. Job’s reconciliation is cosmic and results in sympathy with other beings.

Further, Corbin’s mysticism provides space for valuing the indigenous traditions found in unique watersheds. The simple acknowledgement of religious pluralism does not require a collapse into relativism, but a deeper commitment to the tradition in conversation with a larger global commons ecology. Religious traditions are watersheds which mythologize about the primordial global commons.

Rebirthing Orality: Storied Myth

Over the preceding pages, I have tried to read various scholars to suggest the global commons are the ecological intersection where the divine boils over from primordial void into human imagination. We have a deep-seated fear of and wonder at the primordial fluidity of air and sea. Reading Job, I have suggested the divine voice emanates from the chaotic swirling air (whirlwind) or bubbling deep (Leviathan). Job provides location for ecological epiphany and consequently provides the geography of cosmological Imagination. Analogically, Job’s anthropocentrism is mirrored in the industrialized relationship with creation. As a relationship of dominance and extraction, modern humanity lives alone in a material world devoid of divine presence. In effect for industrial society, the material world swirls around a singular sentience—humanity. Nevertheless, the actions of modern society have profound ecological effects; the primordial deep is stirred. If the industrial human can be characterized as a peculiar composite phenotype, we may wonder how the phenotype is extended into the world. By tracing ecotoxicological results via hindsight, I have symbolized amnesic shellfish poisoning as the result of the extended phenotype of industrial humanity. Consequently, the industrial allele of modern civilization returns from the global commons as amnesia. Different than terrestrial commons, the global commons demand a decentering of human concerns. I believe we will not discover our role as creatures of the earth until we experience the tehophanic event bubbling from the primordial global commons. Until we perceive a larger sentience within the global commons, we will fail to live sustainably in a world of finite resources. Myth gives a face to the resident chaos in the global commons. The mythic traditions woven out of the diverse watersheds can be cosmogonic myths that put industrialized humanity in relationship with the primordial.

As renewed myth, the task must be an oral activism and not a literate conference, publication, or tweet, because the amnesia induced by our global industrial complex is aggravated by literacy dependency. Though literate culture provides incredible resources for the storage of knowledge, it also profoundly affects the social and mental processes of humanity.44 In particular, literacy objectifies memory, externalizes remembrance, and severs the relational nature of knowledge. For myth-making to provide a social backbone that can foster a bioregional cosmology, the process must be oral.

However, language is not a thing but an event.45 Language and its discrete words are sounds rooted in bodily gestural speech.46 In this sense, cosmogonic myths are narrated conversations with both human and more-than-human sentient beings about the beyond-the-human-horizon. These myths are rooted in the oral event of epiphany and refined through social extension. The abstraction and objectification of language onto the page have depersonalized and demythologized the cosmos. As an event, all verbalizations of cosmogonic myth are a singular annunciation that compacts time into a vertical space within the context. The oral myth is not repeated but created anew as it is shared, discussed, and reformatted within the present moment and communal space.

For the ancient Greeks, the act of remembering was itself a mythic returning to the primordial waters. The Muses were the mythic personality of memory and remembrance. To re-member the world, the poet needed help to voice the story. Consequently, though memory was external to the poet, it was personified and required participation with sentience. As Ivan Illich says, “Each utterance was like a piece of driftwood the speaker fished from a river, something cast off in the beyond that had just then washed up onto the beaches of his mind.”47 These waters were the embodiment of one of the Titans—Mnemosyne; she held all the memories of the dead within her primordial waters. Yet the impact of literacy cemented memory onto the page.48 Plato had a complicated relationship with writing, and the shift from a primary to secondary orality can be discerned within his writing. For example, in his epistemological work, Theaetetus, Plato uses a literate metaphor to consider how knowledge is remembered. He puts the suggestion in the words of Socrates:

Please assume, then, for the sake of argument, that there is in our souls a block of wax.
. . . Let us, then, say that this is the gift of Mnemosyne (Memory), the mother of the Mousai (Muses), and that whenever we wish to remember anything we see or hear or think of in our own minds, we hold this wax under the perceptions and thoughts and imprint them upon it, just as we make impressions from seal rings. . . .49

The participatory nature of knowledge and perception is largely lost when we lose the necessity to ask the Muses for remembrance and concretize knowledge onto the page. Plato begins to technologize memory onto a page within his mind. From such a metaphor, it would seem history inevitably reduced participatory memory onto an external page. Nonetheless, the word is not a sign, but the gesticulated verbalization of the body of the world. The literate conferences Western culture promulgates will be largely uneventful until the oral word is released back into the primordial air and water. Only then will the word become event and usher from the whirlwind. In this light, many indigenous peoples who maintain a tight connection to oral tradition must be at the center of a bioregional activism that will be robust enough to engage with the problems of the global commons.

Conclusion

God-via-Leviathan is in the excess—the overflow and the boiling over of reality. The Leviathan slashes instantly and rips open a verticality that carries us into a tehophany. The moment does not evolve into being but snaps into being. The sentient processes of global systems bubble over in fecundity. From the chaotic deep, billions of sentient beings boil into a primordial bloom. The ecological vertical “epiphanic instant” comes from beyond the horizon, from the deep, and from above. The verticality drives us to imagine as we are stretched along the vertical axis of height and depth. Our toes are driven into the basalt bottoms of the sea while our arms are dragged into the sky abyss. Like a cosmic whirling dervish, the stretched posture opens being to the imaginal world. Only a stretched, cosmic mythology can provide the structure for reconciliation to the Leviathan whose home is beyond the horizon. The Leviathan sleeps in the allelopathic abundance of microbial fecundity. Linear time does not run horizontally, but up and down in a hydrological cycle involving a departure and return—an evaporation and precipitation. As terrestrial inhabitants, we are in relationship to the global commons of air and water. Air and water are substantive verbalizations of the cosmos and not substances we can cut apart and count. Only a relational posture to these global commons will provide a regenerative culture for diverse bioregions.

I believe this excursive investigation provides numerous resources for missiological renewal. First, the divine presence described through Leviathan and whirlwind suggest a wild God that is in relation with sentient beings beyond human. Consequently, reconciliation is a cosmic goal and not simply about human redemption. Humanity is redeemed as creation is redeemed. Further, though God may not be conflated with the Leviathan, God is within the primordial void. As God speaks from the whirlwind and intimately knows the Leviathan, so to be in relation with the global commons is to be in communication with God. Second, the investigation hints toward a kind of mystical missiology that can be ecologically grounded. Often God’s mission is conflated to an anthropocentric soteriology. Like Job, reconciliation resituates humanity within the cosmos. Corbin, Bachelard, and Irigaray provide ways for a more relational posture to the material world and a more accessible ecological mysticism. Through the mundus imaginalis, a postmodern missiology can experience grounded epiphany. This is important for relating the diverse experiences of people and the traditions in which they inhabit. Third, a missional activism should give more attention to contextualized cosmogony. Oral myths which bring society into relation with the primordial provide not only an activism for creation care but foster a sustainable relationship with watershed and local economy.

Kyle Holton worked for nine years in northern Mozambique among the Yao helping initiate a natural resource community center called Malo Ga Kujilana. In 2012 he and his family returned to the States. Kyle is a high school teacher in Little Rock, Arkansas. He has an MA in Intercultural Studies and an MS in Environmental Science.

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1 Catherine Keller, Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming (London: Routledge, 2003), suggests a primordial terror of the chaotic deep has been cultivated since the ancient creation myths such as the Enuma Elish, in which Tiamat the mother of the deep was demonized into a dragon.

2 Wally Trabing, “Seabird Invasion Hits Coastal Homes,” Santa Cruz Sentinel, August 18, 1961, http://santacruzpl.org/history/articles/183.

3 Tim Stephens, “Study Documents Marathon Migrations of Sooty Shearwaters,” UC Santa Cruz Currents Online 11, no. 4 (August 2006): http://currents.ucsc.edu/06-07/08-14/shearwaters.asp.

4 Michael A. Quilliam and Jeffrey L. C. Wright, “The Amnesic Shellfish Poisoning Mystery,” Analytical Chemistry 61, no. 18 (September 1989): 1053A–60A, http://dx.doi.org/10.1021/ac00193a002.

5 Donald M. Anderson, et al., “Harmful Algal Blooms and Eutrophication: Examining Linkages from Selected Coastal Regions of the United States,” Harmful Algae 8, no. 1 (2008): 39–53.

6 Ibid.

7 Richard Dawkins, The Extended Phenotype: The Gene as the Unit of Selection (Oxford: Freeman, 1982), vi.

8 I owe the application of archetype to Kevin N. Laland, “Extending the Extended Phenotype,” Biology and Philosophy 19 (2004): 313, http://lalandlab.st-andrews.ac.uk/niche/pdf/Publication84.pdf.

9 To clarify, a phenotype refers to observable traits of individuals. Alleles are different types of the same gene.

10 “Zombie” insects have been infected by certain fungi and baculoviruses. The insects will position themselves in top canopy positions before death in order to provide optimal sporulation of the parasite. This behavior has long mystified scientists since it is optimal for the parasite and dangerous for the host as an open place for predation. Recently, the gene has been isolated with a baculovirus that proves the extension of phenotypic effects from one gene into another organism. For further information, see Kelli Hoover, et al., “A Gene for an Extended Phenotype,” Science 333, no. 6048 (September 2011): 1401, http://www.sciencemag.org/content/333/6048/1401.abstract.

11 As a recent inhabitant of the Ouachita mountains of Arkansas, I have been perplexed and frustrated—as a gardner—to the gravel layer on the surface of most soil profiles. Jonathan Phillips, “Soils as Extended Composite Phenotypes,” Geoderma 149, no. 1–2 (February 2009): 143–51, shows how the soil profile is an extended composite phenotype of the mixed short-leaf pine and hardwood forests that are natural to the area. In essence, the phenotypic peculiarities of the trees shape and effect the soil.

12 Kevin N. Laland and Kim Sterelny, “Perspective: Seven Reasons (not) to Neglect Niche Construction,” Evolution 60, no. 9 (September 2006): 1752, describe how beavers make dramatic changes to the environment by building a dam, creating a lake, slowing nutrient flow and changing vegetation selection. Yet the essential genetic expression of home building changes the environment in such a way that new selection pressures are applied back to the beaver. Also, in Laland, “Extending,” 319 ff., earthworms are massive contributors to soil genesis and can drastically affect the chemistry and structure of soils. This change is due to the biological needs of the earthworm. Essentially, the network of tunnels created by the earthworm are a kind of external kidney since earthworms retain their freshwater kidneys. In this sense, the soil is adapting to the needs of the earthworm. Finally, I will discuss the issue of lactose tolerance with humans below. For further details see, Kevin N. Laland, John Odling-Smee, and Sean Myles, “How Culture Shaped the Human Genome: Bringing Genetics and the Human Sciences Together,” Nature 11, no. 2 (February 2010): 137–48, http://nature.com/nrg/journal/v11/n2/abs/nrg2734.html.

13 I am purposely molding my description of the extended phenotype to prepare a way for a mythic orientation of our current understanding of evolution.

14 Laland, “Extending,” 319.

15 There are endless definitions of globalization that I do not want to discuss at this juncture. However, I am defining the character of global production as industrialization marked by an increase in speed, quantity, and scope.

16 Ecologists have long noted how species with high reproduction rates exist in more chaotic environments where survivorship is low.

17 Specifically, the oceanic commons are the uninhabited human seascapes where we forage for marine life.

18 Robert L. Thayer, LifePlace: Bioregional Thought and Practice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 15.

19 Martin Heidegger, “Building Dwelling Thinking,” trans. David Farrell Krell, in Martin Heidegger: Basic Writings (New York: Harper & Row, 1977), 330, quoted in Joanne Faulkner, “Amnesia at the Beginning of Time: Irigaray’s Reading of Heidegger in the Forgetting of Air,” Contretemps 2 (May 2001): 130, http://sydney.edu.au/contretemps/2may2001/faulkner.pdf.

20 Luce Irigaray, The Forgetting of Air in Martin Heidegger, trans. Mary Beth Mader (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1999), 30, quoted in Faulkner, “Amnesia,” 131.

21 Luce Irigaray, An Ethics of Sexual Difference, trans. Gillian C. Gill (New York: Cornell University Press, 1993), 46, quoted in Faulkner, “Amnesia,” 137.

22 I am reminded of Genesis 1, when the Spirit of the Lord hovers over the face of the deep.

23 Keller, a reader of Luce Irigaray, reconstructs the deep, or tehom, of the creation myths and rereads the nature of the Leviathan in Job in Face of the Deep. Timothy Beal, Religion and Its Monsters (New York: Routledge, 2002), takes a different approach to the monstrous, but also rereads the importance of the tehom and Leviathan. Finally, John D. Caputo, The Weakness of God: A Theology of the Event, Indiana Series in the Philosophy of Religion (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), has read Catherine Keller’s project to develop a robust theopoetics that attempts to locate God within the chaotic event of a creation that emanates from the deep.

24 Scripture quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version.

25 Jon Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1988), 155–56, writes, “Never really addressing Job’s charge of injustice, God changes the subject from ordinary experience to cosmogony.” In reference to God’s address to Job, Levenson adds, “The brunt of that harangue is that creation is a wondrous and mysterious place that baffles human assumptions and expectations because it is not anthropocentric but theocentric.”

26 Timothy Beal, “Mimetic Monsters: The Genesis of Horror in the Face of the Deep,” Postscripts 4, no. 1 (2008): 85–93.

27 Ibid., 88.

28 Beal argues that he and Keller create a complicated response to the Leviathan that is at once joy and horror. For Beal, this marks the essence of true tehophany.

29 Frank Ackerman and Lisa Heinzerling, Priceless: On Knowing the Price of Everything and the Value of Nothing (New York: New Press, 2004).

30 David Miller, “The Body Is No Body,” in Apophatic Bodies: Negative Theology, Incarnation, and Relationality, Transdisciplinary Theological Colloquia, ed. Chris Boesel and Catherine Keller (New York: Fordham University Press, 2010), 140.

31 Ibid., 140.

32 Ibid., 141.

33 Richard Kearney, “Bachelard and the Epiphanic Instant,” Philosophy Today 52 Supplement (2008): 38, https://www2.bc.edu/~kearneyr/pdf_articles/pl86279.pdf.

34 David Graeber, Revolutions in Reverse (London: Minor Compositions, 2011), 46, argues for a “political ontology of the imagination” as both the Marxist form of production in which the imagination conceives structure and implements it into the word, and also a medieval view of “immanent” imagination as the space between reality and reason where perception is produced. David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World (New York: Pantheon Books, 1996), argues for an imagination deeply intertwined with a sensorial, participatory eco-phenomenology.

35 Most of my comments on Henry Corbin are informed by the extensive work done by Tom Cheetham. A good introduction is Tom Cheetham, The World Turned Inside Out: Henry Corbin and Islamic Mysticism (Woodstock, Connecticut: First Spring Journal Books, 2003).

36 Henry Corbin, History of Islamic Philosophy (London: Kegan Paul International, 1993), 4.

37 Tom Cheetham, Green Man, Earth Angel: The Prophetic Tradition and the Battle for the Soul of the World, SUNY Series in Western Esoteric Traditions (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2005), 65.

38 Ibid., 3.

39 Quoted in Cheetham, The World Turned Inside Out, 79.

40 Ibid. states, “For without Intellect or Imagination understood as coming from a divine source beyond the ego, the only desires we can have are those forced upon us by history.”

41 Citing Semnani’s mystical cosmology, Cheetham dwells on the penultimate level of Jesus and the luminous black. Cheetham spends a spacious section explaining Corbin’s critique of incarnational theology to which I am sympathetic.

42 Cheetham, Green Man, 76.

43 Cheetham, The World Turned Inside Out, 162.

44 For a thorough analysis of the cultural and cognitive differences between oral and literate people, see Walter Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word, New Accents (London: Methuen, 1982).

45 Walter Ong, “Before Textuality: Orality and Interpretation,” Oral Tradition 3, no. 3 (1988): 265.

46 In The Spell of the Sensuous David Abram reads Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology of language into a robust animistic cosmology that finds human communication rooted in the sensory experience with the world around us. Further Walter Ong notes the highly “somatic” quality of memorized verse among oral peoples is an inevitable part of communication in Orality and Literacy, 66.

47 Ivan Illich, H2O and the Waters of Forgetfulness: Reflections on the Historicity of “Stuff” (Dallas: Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture, 1985), 33.

48 Ibid., 32, notes that “not one Greek city has preserved an altar dedicated to Mnemosyne.”

49 Plato, Theaetetus.

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Eel River Watershed Discipleship

It was -20 degrees Fahrenheit at 5:00AM on 11 February, 2014. By 8:00AM it was down to -24 degrees, the lowest of the winter here at Joyfield Farm, North Manchester, Indiana. This was the second of three so-called polar vortex weather patterns that were unusual events for our region of the country. It was reminiscent of the extreme weather brought by the severe drought of 2012. As organic market gardeners, that summer had been very difficult. Later that same day, Dave Pritchett asked me to consider writing a reflection piece for the journal Missio Dei.

Those events were the on-the-edge stimuli that started my mind moving in the direction of this reflective piece. Who are we as disciples, those choosing to follow Jesus in this rapidly changing, even chaotic, world? Where do we find ourselves, and what is the place in which we shape our following of Jesus? Is there a specific identity that best defines our activity? I want to move through these questions in a reverse order.

Is there a specific identity that best defines our activity?

Eel River

The Eel River is a tributary of the Wabash River, which becomes the boundary between Indiana and Illinois. The Wabash enters the Ohio River at the southwestern extreme of Indiana. Then the Ohio becomes part of the Mississippi River, which drains just over one-third of the total United States area. The earlier inhabitants of this region along the Eel River called it Kenapocomoco. This river was the dividing line between the Miami and Potawatomi peoples who inhabited the area when Europeans invaded.

The Potawatomi and Miami both left this land under military pressure from the expanding United States. The forced clearance of the Potawatomi from northeastern Indiana to Oklahoma under military escort in 1838 was known as the Trail of Death. Reminiscent of the more well-known Trail of Tears, which was the forced evacuation of the Cherokee from the southeastern United States, the Trail of Death was actually even worse.

Eel River is also the name of the congregation where my wife, Arlene, and I hold our church membership—the Eel River Community Church of the Brethren. It began on the north side of the Eel River, formerly Potawatomi land, in 1838. New members joined the congregation through an immersion baptism of consenting adults in the waters near the church that flowed into the Eel.

That baptism came from the biblical understanding of the brothers and sisters that each congregant should be buried to self and raised to new life in the symbolic dunking three times forward into flowing waters. A Pennsylvania elder went further when he explained to me, “Baptism was carried out with the new member facing upstream, symbolic of living against the tide of society the rest of her or his life when one follows as a disciple of Jesus.”

Though our congregation is presently composed of folks living in three different counties, three different small towns, and focused in two different school districts, the Eel River drainage encompasses all of the members. That drainage provides a unity not found in other geographical units. Since many in the congregation have a focus in horticulture, the common weather and terrain conditions provide a unique common identity for the members.

Where do we find ourselves and what is the place in which we shape our following of Jesus?

Watershed

The Eel River and the rivers into which its waters merge all move toward the south. Just about twenty-one miles north of the Eel River Community Church of the Brethren is the continental divide that splits the falling water that goes north through the St. Lawrence Seaway to the Atlantic Ocean from the water that flows south through the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico. So we live in the Gulf of Mexico Watershed, one of the five major watersheds of the North American continent. The others are the Atlantic, Pacific, and Arctic Oceans, and the Hudson Bay.

For the purposes of this article, let us use a smaller geography and select primarily the Eel River and its environs. That will allow us to focus more tightly on the region that includes the Eel River Community Church of the Brethren.

Interestingly, almost parallel to the Eel River and just south of us is Teays River Valley, an underground aquifer of ancient water that carries glacial melt from the time of the last ice age. Those glacial waters have a few connecting points to the Eel River. But pumping the aquifer for major agricultural irrigation resembles the mining of resources because the aquifer waters are not replaced. For example, the Ogallala Aquifer in Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma is depleted about two-thirds from its original volume because of unsustainable irrigation practices.

When settlers moved into this Eel River watershed region it was heavily forested. Huge trees made traffic by buggy or ox cart impossible. People could pass only on foot between the hardwood trees. When travelers carried any significant load they moved on waterways and passed through settlements built along those river banks.

But the Brethren were farmers and their style of farming required open ground. Brethren settlers felled trees for houses; they girdled trees and then burned them for planting crops and clearing land to graze animals. Today the canopy is gone, except for a scattering of new growth trees.

Who are we as disciples, those choosing to follow Jesus in this rapidly changing, even chaotic, world?

Discipleship

Discipleship for Christians is primarily about following in the footsteps of Jesus. Discipleship is voluntary but may come through what the individual feels is a call from Jesus’ Spirit. For Brethren, it comes primarily in the context of the community of sisters and brothers.

The beginnings of the Church of the Brethren were in Germany in the year 1708. The seven young men and women who gathered along the Eder River to baptize each other were strongly influenced by the Anabaptist and the Pietist movements. An adult voluntary decision to join the church, a commitment of accountability to sisters and brothers, a practice of Bible study and prayer life, a choice to be peacemakers in a world focused on war, a clear separation of church and state, and an embodied life of discipleship and justice in Jesus’ Way are threads of this disciplined following of Jesus.

Discipleship relies on spiritual feeding and regular challenges to our acceptance of a status quo that builds injustice. Spiritual disciplines need to be chosen that help us live against the tide of a society that ignores the injustices that feed our own power and wealth. Disciples need to sip water from the underground aquifers of ancient wisdom and times of testing.

Discipleship is a clarity of living in the face of choices because the community is clear that is how Jesus would choose to live. Discipleship is not about a choice of doctrine or a special place to worship and practice one’s devotions. It is about what the follower of Jesus does. It is a focus on how God’s reign manifests itself here on earth rather than an emphasis on whether the believer gets to heaven. It is an effort to live consistently with Jesus’ prayer, “Thy kingdom come here on earth as in heaven.” God’s reign starts here and now and then will be fleshed out most fully in God’s time and space. Disciples recognize their dependence on God’s power for their daily walk and rely on God’s initiative in the formation of this reign.

Synapses

What are the ways these pieces fit together? I will attempt to hold the connections long enough for the reader to examine my theses and shape them for the benefit of a different space and people. They are not poured in concrete. I have found them helpful but perhaps you can use them as a launch pad for different and better ideas in your own church community.

(1) Watershed discipleship here in the Eel River basin needs to start with some kind of reconciliation with the First Nation peoples. Maybe it requires moving out and returning the land to the remnant of the original inhabitants. Just as in Palestine/Israel it seems that any sustainable decision on land will require a shared land with shared political control or a split two-nation political entity, and that is most likely in this setting, too.

True, the Brethren were not part of the military effort that evicted the Potawatomi and Miami but they were clearly beneficiaries of that forced expulsion. How can injustice be corrected after more than 175 years?

An important step might be for us as settlers to assume a style of life that allows sustainability for seven generations, a principle often used as a guideline by Native peoples.1 How do our present decisions impact the lives of those who will come to this place in seven generations? Clearly our lives of consumption and waste cannot be sustained by the planet or our watershed for anywhere near seven generations!

Our lifestyle drives toward an apocalypse of humanity’s making. The maximization of profit over justice ignores environmental and human concerns. Our depletion of mineral resources leaves nothing for future generations. We waste pure water to the last drop. Our eating practices drive us to obesity and ill health. The radioactive and toxic wastes we leave in our path will lay down extensive cancer fields that will outlive the human race. The pollution of the air will leave no air for humans to breathe. The culmination is war, which combines the above sins against God and humanity with the assumption that whatever we can do we should do. So we choose gas chambers, nuclear weapons, rape as the tool of war, depleted uranium weapons, suicide bombings, and drones.

But these sins pale in the face of the apostasy that assumes our apocalypse can usurp or fulfill God’s Apocalypse. We even define the disaster we have made of the earth as God’s judgment, God’s apocalyptic intervention, because of the sins of the other humans who are not like us. We put ourselves in the place of God by choosing uncreation in the face of God’s good creation.

In a more faithful following, the journey can begin with a small step. Downward mobility rather than upward mobility can encompass an intentional choice for a dramatically lower income level. For over forty years Arlene and I have kept our income below the taxable level so as not to pay taxes for war. This also forces for us a lower level of material consumption, perhaps a level of living that doesn’t need so much to be defended by war. Downward mobility can also include major steps toward humility and vulnerability. In the context of church community and accountability to brothers and sisters, both neighbors and enemies, downward mobility might control any lust for power and egocentric perversions of relationships. Choosing humility and vulnerability as Jesus did enables us to find Jesus in the least of these.

(2) A movement toward watershed discipleship here in the Eel River basin should be a movement away from empire toward regional responsibility. For Jesus and the early church, that was healing the wounds caused by empire economics—a system which squeezed the wealth out of Palestine solely for the benefit of the political elite. Jesus and the early church led a refocus toward those on the bottom of the economic and political spectrum, the outcasts, women, children, Samaritans, and poor, instead of an elevation and honoring of those on the top. It was an equalizing of money and power not a maximization of the economic and power divide between poor and rich. It was a dramatic and intentional move toward voluntary slavery (see the foot washing scene in John 13) as opposed to the making of slaves for another’s personal benefit. This change was initiated not by the top of the divide but by those on the bottom of the divide.

These steps are not easy. How can we move ourselves into their reality? Imagine a youth group or congregation choosing to “walk a mile in another’s moccasins.” Perhaps doing so by walking a day or a week as a lonely elder abandoned by family, as a vegan or vegetarian trying to eat lower on the food chain, as a returned Afghan vet impacted by post-traumatic stress while operating in a front line Ranger unit, as a gay/lesbian youth grappling with ostracism in high school, or as a homeless person, jobless or underemployed and struggling to support a family. Would this “role play” provide the stark realism that Jesus’ actions and words toward outcasts did for his disciples and followers throughout the New Testament?

(3) Regional responsibility also moves us as disciples to envision an economy that serves the neighbors that are right around us. The Eel River watershed and its agricultural economy as it is presently structured is controlled by decisions made in board rooms hundreds or thousands of miles from here. The prices for crops grown here on local farms are prices set by multinational grain companies who care nothing about real people in the Eel River region. Inputs for crops, like fertilizer and herbicides, are priced to serve the corporation rather than the farmer.

How does that change? Farmers’ markets start to bring locally grown food back to the customers. The growers set their prices, often discover organic ways that bypass fertilizer and herbicide companies, and experiment with crops that could be easily grown by farmers who have seemingly become dependent on bank loans and outside multinationals to survive.

A locally-focused economy begins to recycle each dollar many times in the community before it leaves town rather than leaving town the instant it is spent at a McDonalds fast food chain or Walmart Superstore. If that dollar is spent instead with locally oriented establishments the benefit accrues to local businesses and families. Then it won’t be the corporate executives that reap the big bonuses for squeezing low paid employees, relying on public inputs to run the company and leaving those local neighborhoods to clean up any messes.

Our local North Manchester Farmers’ Market is an experiment in birthing new economic ventures and an attractive place that draws customers committed to investing their monies to sustain this local economy. It is but one example of an effort to recycle each dollar many times before it leaves town, for each recycling adds to the local economic stability and sustainability.

Conclusion

Most congregations find themselves in a certain watershed, with a specific history and grappling with environmental and economic issues that threaten to overwhelm their abilities. Watershed discipleship offers new ways to reexamine following Jesus. It brings rich resources to bear on that effort by relying on the sisters and brothers who make up each congregation. It offers accountability with those who lived in our space before us and may even provide a better insight for reading the Scriptures and interpreting Jesus’ words.

This reflection is an offering to stimulate imagination for other disciples in their walk with Jesus. Though it may not fit your situation exactly I hope it does offer ideas that you can expand to best fit your denominational and congregational setting. I encourage you to be part of expanding this framework for the choices in Christian discipleship. Blessings of peace to you!

Cliff Kindy is an organic market gardener with wife, Arlene, on Joyfield Farm where they live with three other families. For the past thirty years Cliff has been active with Christian Peacemaker Teams using tools of nonviolence to increase the peace and justice in many of the conflict sites of our world. Cliff and Arlene decided to keep their income low enough to not pay any taxes for war since they married in 1971 and chose not ot have a car for the first twelve years of their married life even as they raised two daughters. They enjoy hosting interns who work with them in the garden and grapple with discipleship issues for these times.

1 When I spent time with the Lakota Sioux in South Dakota as part of a Christian Peacemaker Teams effort, tribal members would regularly speak of making decisions in light of how it would affect those seven generations in the future.

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Watershed Discipleship and Food Covenants: A Way Through Our Paralysis?

In July 2013, Todd Wynward sat down with author and activist Ched Myers to discuss the concept of watershed discipleship and dream about building an alliance among faith-rooted groups engaged in localized, bioregional living. Below are Todd’s reflections.

Might watershed discipleship be the good news that we so desperately need to rouse us from our paralysis?

I don’t have an easy relationship with institutional Christianity. All too often, organized religion ends up supporting the warlike tendencies, ravenous greed, and socioeconomic inequities from which Jesus sought to liberate us. In our missionary zeal to share our affluent North American version of Christianity, we spread a lot of bad habits along with good news. Our religion, tied so closely to American militarism and capitalism, has lost much of its ability to be prophetic or transformative in today’s world. Most modern secular progressives view Christianity as a laughable superstition, if not downright dangerous and destructive.

Perhaps the truly urgent “mission” today is not to save others but to save ourselves. Perhaps it is our culture and our religion that need converting. As a North American steeped in a culture of affluenza, I have to agree with Ched Myers’s stark analysis of our current condition: modern Western society lies drugged in an “ecocidal slumber.” We’re fully aware our actions are causing the corrosion of earth’s basic life-sustaining systems. We know we could make better choices. Yet we lay paralyzed, trapped by our compulsive habits and comfortable lifestyles.

Ched holds up a strange hope to our postmodern paralysis: the Bible. He asserts that “the prophetic traditions indigenous to both testaments may alone be capable of rousing us” from our addictive malaise.

The Bible—our best spur toward urgent action?

It’s an unconventional hope for modern progressives who—for good reason—run away from anything claiming to be “Bible-based.” Yet Ched contends the Bible might be the best tool available to get modern America to drop the iPad and get off the couch.

It’s an interesting proposition. Do ancient scriptures hold enough social critique to radicalize slumbering evangelicals AND enough social credibility to galvanize cynical progressives? Perhaps. Ched thinks so. He describes the power of the prophetic strands that weave through the Bible: The reflective poems, warning tales, grand sagas, and radical histories of Scripture summon us to remember our origins and the ways of our ancestors, invite us to imagine and work for a restorative future, and call us to liberate and heal ourselves and our home places.

Reform of habits—such as recycling, eating locally, and shopping responsibly—is important, Ched affirms, but to become the people we need to be to face our environmental crisis, we’ll need to do much more: we’ll need to practice transformed living through watershed discipleship.

Watershed discipleship? It’s an odd, almost jarring term, invoking and synthesizing two domains rarely joined in our imaginations: one scientific, the other religious. Yet I’m becoming convinced it is exactly this kind of unitive consciousness—both data-driven and deeply spiritual—that is needed if we are to play any significant role in our planet’s healing.

I agree wholeheartedly with Ched that those seek to practice watershed discipleship must embrace the motto: “We will not save a place we do not love; we cannot love a place we do not know.” Knowing a particular place—experiencing its characteristics and being molded by its constraints, its bounty, and its boundaries—is essential to watershed discipleship. It is the “re-placed” identity we as a species must vitally embody if we are to rouse from ecocidal slumber.

So what is watershed discipleship, exactly? As a fledgling movement emerges, it’s clear that no one knows quite yet. It’s the kind of “guiding framework” that could motivate us to move mountains of malaise and despair, but it needs some clarity. Watershed discipleship remains a work-in-progress, an intriguing and powerful concept only discovered and defined as we live it out in our places each day. To be a disciple within my watershed is a concept I understand; to be a disciple of my watershed is a concept I want to explore.

Region As Rabbi

Watershed discipleship, when lived out in daily practice, actively resists our culture of affluenza and converts us to Sabbath living. Sabbath living, as Ched writes, is the antithesis of conspicuous consumption; rather, it is about gift and limits: “the grace of receiving that which the Creator gives, and the responsibility not to take too much, nor to mistake the gift for a possession.”1

Is this what Jesus meant when he said the meek shall inherit the earth (Matt 5:5)? The ancient Hebrew for meek is ⁽ ānāw—meaning the humble, those who do not grasp and hoard, those who do not think too highly of their own importance and needs. Is Jesus saying these are the ones who can coexist and live within the blessing of creation, while the haughty and the grasping are unable?

Through the lens of watershed discipleship, another of Jesus’ well-known sayings takes on new meaning: “Consider the lilies of the field” (Matt 6:25). Jesus seems to be saying, “Examine how the lilies thrive where they are planted; model your life upon what they teach you.” Be a student of God’s creation that thrives in your watershed. See your region as your rabbi.

Seeing your watershed differently leads to acting in your watershed differently. As I learn to re-inhabit the place I live, I’m seeing my region as my rabbi in three specific ways.

Watershed as Sustainer, Teacher, and Corrector

Try on this idea: All of my food needs, my watershed can provide. Sounds crazy? It does to me. I mean, I know most human societies for all of history were sustained by their watersheds, but those were primitive people, primitive times, right? What about my Italian parmesan and my Florida orange juice? What about my olive oil and coconut milk?

Can all the items my family loves be sourced in my bioregion? Of course not. But this line of inquiry leads me to pursue two questions. First: How much of what we desire can be sourced from our watershed? In the high deserts of New Mexico where I live, the answer is bleak. For my family to obtain what we like eating, I’d have to drive hundreds of miles before I found the first orange tree or avocado orchard. This leads me to a second question: To what extent can we become creatures who thrive within the limits of our bioregion? In other words, to what extent can we adapt?

Wait—me, adapt my wants to my watershed? As an entitled American consumer steeped in egocentric values, this suggestion is not only absurd; it is scandalous. I’m trained to buy whatever I want whenever I want, without a second thought to planetary consequences. To be asked to limit my lifestyle, to curb my appetites, fills a part of me with indignant fury and fear. “I’m an American!” I want to roar.

Yet my watershed, my rabbi, corrects my spoiled behavior. Just like in any master refines and re-forms an immature or out-of-shape disciple, my rabbi corrects me as part of my training. This is a kind of conversion, metanoia, or transformation of worldview and habits that early followers of Jesus underwent. They were taught to walk away from the self-advancing values of Empire and instead care for the poor, love their neighbors, and anticipate a modest bounty of daily bread. These age-old precepts were central to the teachings of Jesus; they are equally central to the teachings of my watershed. They cause me to look anew at the two troubling and transformative questions raised earlier: What can my watershed provide? How can I adapt my wants?

A few years ago, some neighbors and I decided to have some fun with these questions. Instead of bemoaning the arid sparseness of northern New Mexico’s high country, we began to explore what kinds of food sources could thrive in our dry mountain environment. At the same time, with a perverse joy, we began to break from Empire-based thinking and explore whether we could learn to be happy with what our watershed provided. My ranching friend, Daniel, has managed small herds to see which livestock could thrive with minimal inputs while being maximally useful to us. What has he found? Goats and sheep, we want to keep. They adapt well to our bioregion, are fairly easy to manage, and provide milk, cheese, meat, kefir, and yogurt. But yaks? Not so much. After five years of experimentation and hard work, Daniel concluded that they’re substantially more trouble than they’re worth. As for vegetables and fruits, we’ve found success with plenty of the usual fare—carrots, onions, beets, tomatoes, zucchini, apples, plums, and greens galore. Also, under the guidance of my mentor gardener Seth, I’ve adapted my habits and taste buds to foods that can thrive in my region. I now appreciate hand-ground cornmeal, new types of beans, high-altitude quinoa, plum preserves, wild amaranth and lamb’s quarters, sorrel, kale chips, broccoli leaves, and unfamilar varieties of squash and potatoes.

I’m finding that many of my current life practices—habits formed unconsciously growing up within a culture of excess—have no part in the life of a watershed disciple, nor of a serious Jesus follower. Even as I adapt, however, a large part of me wants to remain an unconscious and self-absorbed consumer, a well-trained cog of empire. Are you feeling it too? We both know it’s easier to remain a spoiled child instead of becoming a responsible adult. Yet in this “watershed” moment of history—with our existence in the balance—it’s clear the earth itself is calling affluent North Americans to do something old-fashioned: repent, turn around. To exist within the limits of our watersheds, we’ll need to release our attitudes of entitlement and re-program our voracious appetites.

Toward A Bioregional Food Covenant

What concrete steps can we take to thrive within the bounty—and the boundaries—of our bioregions? If we are to survive much longer as a species, many of us infected with unbounded affluenza need to make this question central to our lives. As David Orr writes: “It makes far better sense to reshape ourselves to fit a finite planet than to attempt to reshape the planet to our infinite wants.”2

My wife and I have done a bit to reshape ourselves to our region: we live in a yurt in the Sangre de Cristo mountains near Taos, New Mexico. We milk goats, shear sheep, plant trees, catch water, and try to grow a lot of our food in the high desert. My wife and I each have more than two decades of experience as wilderness educators, river guides, and camp directors. Both of us have spent more than a thousand days—three years of our lives—in open country and in wilderness, sleeping under the stars. More than once we have been called feral. Recently, a citified visitor from Philadelphia giggled in awe when she entered our small dwelling, and immediately started snapping photos. She simply couldn’t believe we use a composting toilet and carry water to our yurt by hand in buckets, like millions of people across the world.

Before you get too impressed, let’s be clear: we’re pretenders. My family still has laptops and a cappuccino maker, cell phones and Netflix. We daily take our son to soccer practice in a Prius and monthly drive a hundred miles to shop at the nearest Trader Joe’s. Even though we homestead in the high country, we’re still entangled in Empire.

What’s a concrete step we can take to begin localizing our appetites? Here’s a practical idea that might incite a movement: a 25/75/100 Bioregional Food Covenant. To join, an individual would make this pledge: “By the year 2025, I will source 75% of my food from within 100 miles.” The specific numbers I’ve chosen are, by nature, arbitrary; yet if a 25/75/100 covenant can be attained in our challenging high desert climate here in northern New Mexico, then likely it’s a covenant that could be made by most Americans.

Can a modest personal vow like this make a big difference? In light of the massive global crises we face, an individual vow may seem ludicrous. But think again: if a critical mass is reached, a humble vow like this could change how humans live on our planet. Let us count the ways:

It enriches local economies. Thousands of families committing locally for the long term establishes new demand and new markets, creating an incubator for regional companies to grow, sell, and distribute good food within their communities. Hard-earned cash becomes “slow money,” circulating longer within the region, causing more healthy cycles of exchange for local goods and services. Right now, there are few local growers and very little local food available in America, because most of us don’t demand it.

It corrects our crazy consumption. Sourcing much of our food locally means adapting to our watershed, letting it instruct us how to be. It means learning to live within healthy natural limits. It means no longer being able to buy whatever I want whenever I want from wherever I want, without a second thought to planetary consequences.

It improves individual health. Kale or Krispy Kreme? This may not be a fair comparison, but the point is this: when communities encourage one another to eat food produced off the land, better health is likely to develop. Affordable access to farm-fresh food is a promising antidote to many of modern society’s illnesses.

It reduces petroleum, packaging, and pollution. Currently, the majority of mega-chain food travels a thousand miles or more to reach your local grocery store. Massive amounts of petroleum are used to improve soil, grow, process, store, preserve, package, and deliver food that could be grown and transported within a few miles of home. Reduced travel and storage means reduced packaging and pollution.

It encourages active citizenship. Once we commit to eat from our bioregion, we naturally care much more about its health—about the quality of the water, soil, and air around us. We see the beautiful complexity of the interconnected living systems required to produce good food. We start organizing in creative and clarifying ways like the New Mexico Coalition for Community Rights. This organization encourages regional groups to adopt Community Bills of Rights, asserting that corporations are not above people, and declaring that all citizens of a watershed have an inalienable right to clean air and clean water.

It boosts “community resilience”—the ability of one’s home region to thrive in the face of change and shocks from the outside, as articulated by Transition Network founder Rob Hopkins.3 A bioregional food covenant would build local capacity and infrastructure, reduce dependency upon external providers, promote sustainability, and increase biological diversity in one’s region.

The 25/75/100 Bioregional Food Covenant is a practical idea that might incite a movement. What might our nation look like if a groundswell of communities across the country took on this covenant and patiently worked with their farmers and sellers to obtain 75% of their food from their own region by 2025?

Watershed discipleship, based on the prophetic tradition, is a promising hope for rousing the culture; a bioregional food covenant, based on Watershed Discipleship values, is a promising action that might just convert the culture. It might just be the thing to rouse us from our paralysis. It might just be the antidote affluent Americans need, as a first step on the path of watershed discipleship.

Todd Wynward is a Mennonite who lives with his family in Taos, NM. He has been engaged in experiential education and social change movements for twenty years, and has spent more than a thousand nights outdoors. He is the founder of a wilderness-based public charter school, leads backpacking and river trips for adult seekers, and is an animating force behind TiLT, an intentional co-housing community. Patheos.com calls his novel The Secrets of Leaven “a delicious mystery . . . exploring deep questions.” His blog, Undomesticated, can be found at http://leavenrising.com.

1 Ched Myers, The Biblical Vision of Sabbath Economics (Washington, DC: Tell the Word, 2001), 5.

2 David W. Orr, Earth in Mind: On Education, Environment, and the Human Prospect, 10th Anniversary ed. (Washington, DC: Island Press, 2004), 9.

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“Watershed Discipleship” (Editorial Preface to the Issue)

Would you risk being baptized in your local river or pond? In many places—such as northeastern Indiana where I used to live—immersing oneself in a local body of water now means exposure to a bath of chemicals and coliform bacteria, particularly after a rain, and at certain times of the year when crops are being sprayed. Most bodies of water in the United States have a fishing advisory that tells consumers how many fish can safely be eaten before health may be adversely affected by the toxic load the fish carry. In less “developed” countries across the world, where there are no environmental regulations, rivers function as a moving trash heap, carrying garbage and dead fish downriver from factories and villages. This failing health of our rivers and the watersheds that feed them is symptomatic of a greater global pathology wrought by industrial civilization.

The language of environmental catastrophe is apocalyptic: a garbage patch of plastics the size of Texas floats in the Pacific; a coal slurry spill into North Carolina’s Dan river evokes Isaiah’s vision of Edom’s streams turning to pitch. Meanwhile, a Coca-Cola plant in India’s Uttar Pradesh guzzles groundwater in return for spewing out toxins affecting local streams and soils.1 In early 2014, Freedom Industries was responsible for the leak of a hazardous coal washing chemical which left residents of nine West Virginia counties without potable water for five days, causing toxicity to the Elk river watershed.2 Every year, the world loses more and more topsoil to the sea due to industrial farming practices and deforestation.3 Details of the destruction are fastidiously collected. Peak oil, peak phosphorus, and peak water coalesce out of data points into pinnacles on scientists’ presentations. If the world has not already passed these peaks, it is surely on the cusp, they say.

This accumulating evidence suggests that humankind needs a drastic change in our way of life. Yet the looming catastrophes prophesied on the lips of our modern science sages fail to elicit change. We continue living like lemmings dangerously close to the looming cliffs of peak oil, peak water, and peak phosphorus. Perhaps we can no longer imagine a form of life without consumption based upon petrochemicals, industrial agriculture, and prepackaged food. We need a revolution of imagination. Yet, Bill Mollison, cofounder of the permaculture movement, reminds us of the “futility of revolutionaries who have no gardens, who depend on the very system they attack, who produce words and bullets, not food and shelter.”4 The change from toxic consumption to regenerative production must thus begin at the local level.

Disciples desperately need resources that will animate a church ready to stand against the tide of ecocidal petro-capitalism. This issue of Missio Dei Journal addresses this need for transformation by integrating ecological and theological concerns under the framework of “Watershed Discipleship.” Coined by theologian Ched Myers, Watershed Discipleship recognizes that environmental theology and ethics are often too disconnected from the everyday life of the faithful. Implicit to this paradigm is the understanding that the watershed—a geographic area drained into a body of water—is the primary unit of ecological systems, and thus the place where disciples can exert the most influence. Since water is fundamental to life, species within a given area are all connected by the flow of water through it. Thus, by invoking the watershed in our Christian discipleship, we acknowledge that our faith is bound to the land, plants, and creatures within it, as well as the water coursing through all of them. Our faith must follow the aquatic contours of the land, first, because we affirm the goodness of the earth, waters, and their creatures. To despoil the land is to spite the Creator—“there are no unsacred places,” writes Wendell Berry, “only sacred and desecrated places.”5 Second, we acknowledge that water issues are justice issues. Access to clean water is foundational to human health and wholeness, and increasingly a privilege of the wealthy.

Watershed Discipleship offers missiology a more holistic attention to context. If “mission is the mother of theology,” then place is the mother of mission—which is to say that mission occurs in particular regions, home to specific peoples and habitat to distinct flora and fauna. By re-placing discipleship in the foreground of the watershed, the church acknowledges that we both influence and are shaped by the specifics of our location. We are always followers of Jesus in a certain place. The climate, topography of the land, and the flow of water over it define that place. Daily losses of unrecoverable species and unique ecosystems caused by the gluttonous consumption of industrial civilization interrogate our idea of discipleship. If a missiology of “re-place-ment” is to mean something, it must cause us to reexamine the ways our livelihoods interact with the watersheds we inhabit.

Second, Watershed Discipleship provides new approaches to transform the ruin of global ecological systems wrought by industrial civilization. If watersheds are the fundamental unit of ecology, re-placement helps disciples perceive the level at which they can affect real change. Because we live during a watershed moment in history—a time when industrial civilization is at its peak and the actions taken by industrial societies in the coming years could affect the globe for centuries—we can act out of love for all the world by acting with integrity in our own unique places. By cleaning and protecting our watersheds, one at a time, we may reverse the steady poisoning of the world.

Finally, by placing ourselves under the tutelage of our own watersheds, we begin to know what it means to be “placed.” The solutions for making life work in an ecological context are already under our feet. The cactus survives drought by catching and storing enough rainwater to survive the dry season. Dryland human communities do the same with cisterns. Ephemeral vegetation thrives on the shady forest floor by leafing out before the overstory does, thereby catching enough sunlight to live through the shady summer. Animal communities depend on these ephemerals for nourishment in the sparse days before spring—historically, many humans have as well. How does the squirrel live through the long winter? Not by importing goods with fossil fuels, but by storing up enough during times of abundance. Followers of Jesus must consider again the “birds of the air,” and the “lilies of the field” (Matt 6:26–29). By doing so, we join the chorus of creation, with each species inhabiting its niche in the world. Understanding the topography and soil, how the birds and foxes make it through winter, or the times when the native flowers bloom—these things teach us what it means to live with integrity, fully integrated in place.

1 “Court Allows Coca-Cola Plant to Reopen in Uttar Pradesh,” The New York Times, India Ink: Notes on the World’s Largest Democracy, June 20, 2014, http://india.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/06/20/court-allows-coca-cola-plant-to-reopen-in-uttar-pradesh/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0.

2 Ken Ward Jr., “Freedom Industries cited for Elk chemical spill,” The Charleston Gazette, January 10, 2014, http://www.wvgazette.com/News/201401100100. After testing of the chemical on laboratory animals, Eastman Chemicals deemed it “hazardous,” according to Evan Osnos, “Chemical Valley: The Coal Industry, the Politicians, and the Big Spill,” The New Yorker, April 7 2014, http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/04/07/chemical-valley.

3 World Economic Forum, “What If The World’s Soil Runs Out?,” TIME, December 14, 2012, http://world.time.com/2012/12/14/what-if-the-worlds-soil-runs-out.

4 Bill Millison, Permaculture: A Practical Guide for a Sustainable Future (Washington, DC: Island Press, 1990), 5.

5 Wendell Berry, Given: Poems (Berkeley: CounterPoint Press, 2005), 18.